Ghost Writer
by Exterminatedaffodils123
Summary: Pease Pottage, 1924. The Doctor has given Mel a holiday in the past; a few weeks among her ancestors whilst he sees to other business. Tea, crumpets, long summer walks and relaxing. Except it's never that simple, is it? Please R R
1. Prologue

_'_ _What's past is prologue.'_

Dramatis Personae:

The Doctor, a traveller in time and space.

Mel, his companion.

Arthur, the manager of a boarding house.

Alice, his niece.

Maisy, a fellow guest.

Oakley, an elusive Professor.

The Ghost, their enemy.

There was a flash of darkness.

It rippled through the air, sending tendrils of light and black cracking amongst the silence. The ground itself tremored in response, quaking in fear of the events to come. The blinding inferno built up, each wave shattering into more and more collections of noise and dark.

A screeching sounded, as if the world was crying out, a futile attempt at raging one last rage before the end of times came. It deafened the area, a cacophony of bizarre and alien cackling with as much meaning to it as light does to darkness.

The sight grew stronger and stronger, the darkness and light flickering faster and faster, as the roars slowly grew louder and quieter, louder and quieter, each peak higher than the last. Each beat and flash could feel themselves pushing each other further and further, closer and closer towards the inevitable climax.

It was all no more than a blur, an overwhelming tsunami that brought the drowning nonsense together and apart once more in a tempestuous blaze of glory.

And then it was over.


	2. Chapter 1: The Crooked House

Chapter 1: The Crooked House

The first few pinpricks of sunlight had broken through the curtains. They poured themselves over the bed, brightening up the room and enhancing every colour available. White, reds, blues all sprang to life in a silent, motionless dance.

Mel rolled over in the bed, either unable or unwilling to move. With a soft groan, she rubbed her hands over her eyes, before sitting up in the bed.

'What time is it…' she murmured to herself, as she plucked the alarm clock from the table beside her. 'Just gone eight. Marvellous.' she groaned, flopping back into the bed.

For the most memorable parts of her life, she'd made it an involuntary habit to wake up as soon as possible. Even after hours of nocturnal reading, she would still find herself springing to life at the crack of dawn. 'Sleep is for the weary, rest is for the dead!' the Doctor had once boomed to her, bouncing up and down the TARDIS corridors the moment she was awake.

Still, she was up. She might as well get a start on the day's jobs. Sighing discreetly to herself, she tossed the duvet to one side, and rose from the mattress.

As she padded towards the window, failing to stifle a small yawn, she glimpsed through the pane of glass. Outside the building, masses of swirling green and blue greeted her a good morning, the tweeting birds from the garden heralding the breaking of dawn. It was a postcard come to life, Maisy had told her the other day.

 _'_ _A short break_ ,' _the Doctor decided, flipping the nearest switch on the console. 'A nice rest, after all that business with the X.'_

 _Mel watched him work at the TARDIS, his fingers moving much faster than she could see but with the pin-point precision of a virtuoso pianist. Each tap of the keys was met with a small chime from the console in response, like the ship wanted to play along with its master – or perhaps its pet, for that matter; Mel had never been quite sure which way round it truly was._

 _'_ _Doctor,' she started 'I'd much rather just go somewhere…'_

 _'_ _Somewhere what, Mel?'_

 _'_ _Somewhere fun,' she decided 'Isn't there a corridor that needs running down, something like that?'_

 _'_ _Hopefully not.' the Doctor replied, not once taking his eyes off of the controls. 'Rest can be just as good for the body as a rigorous workout. You of all people should know that, Mel.'_

 _'_ _I suppose you're right. But as long as it's not somewhere dull. I always used to stay at my auntie's for two weeks in the summer. There was hardly anything to do!'_

 _'_ _Yes, I know the feeling…' the Doctor chuckled back._

 _Suddenly, the rotor at the centre of the console stopped. They'd arrived._

 _'_ _Ah!' exclaimed the Doctor, as if he was surprised at the smooth landing. 'Here we are!'_

 _'_ _Where are we?' Mel asked, grabbing her jacket from the coat-stand._

 _'_ _That is the question, isn't it? Let's find out.'_

 _The Doctor popped on his hat, and pulled the red lever. With a bright hum, the double doors slid open, revealing the world outside_

Jericho Manor was a crooked house. It had been built on the cheap 50 years ago, a vain and shallow attempt by the previous owners, the Jericho brothers, to show off their ill-gotten wealth, earned from a long-term scheme of fixed horseraces, smuggling and plain thievery.

Due in part to the poor designs and the lack of staff, it had soon fallen into disrepair, a fact that wasn't helped by both brothers being called to fight and losing their lives in the Boer War. The house was auctioned off to the highest bidder, who happened to be a somewhat eccentric man named Arthur Reynolds.

Over the next ten years, he'd rebuilt the house practically from scratch, replacing almost every brick, nail and bolt in the place. At last, it was serviceable as a place of living. However, despite the extensive renovations, the faults in the foundations could not be fixed; at least, not without burning a few more hundred pounds out of Arthur's bank account. And thus, Jericho Manor remained crooked.

In 1914, war broke out across Europe. Arthur, on the cusp of the consignment limit, was summoned to the fields of Ypres. There, a fateful German mortar landed in his trench, throwing him across the mud in a flash of smoke.

He returned to England four months later, having spent the interim in a military hospital on the French border. The wheelchair, he was told, would have to be pretty comfortable; he was never getting out of it again.

Despite the injury, he refused to become an invalid. The Manor was re-opened as a boarding house, for all who wished the finest sights of West Sussex but scrimp on the price of a decent hostel. Joining him as the staff was his niece, Alice; and Jensen, a family friend. Together, they managed to maintain the boarding house to an agreeable standard.

Or at least, that was what Mel had been told. Apparently, it was the story Maisy told everyone when they arrived, according to Alice. Whether it was true or not rather depended on the interpretation.

Mel gave a cursory glance to the window, taking a quick estimate of the temperature. Nice and warm. She dug through the clothes she had brought with her, before selecting a white sundress with green polka dots.

She thundered down the stairs, almost falling flat on her face if it wasn't for her expertly nimble feet. The sound of her feet banging against the wooden steps could be heard as far as Bristol, Paul had joked the other day.

'Steady on!' Arthur laughed, as Mel rounded the corner and ducked into the kitchen. 'You'll blow a hole in the wall at that speed!'

'Sorry, Mr Reynolds,' Mel replied, picking an apple from the fruit bowl.

'Arthur!' he scolded good-naturedly back. 'You're a guest, not staff.'

Mel took a bite of the apple, crunching through the scarlet skin on top.

'And, er, speaking of guests…' he started, clearing his throat and moving the chair towards Mel. 'Any news on your friend? When he'll be back, you know?'

'Sorry.' Mel replied 'He has a habit of coming and going as he pleases. I'm sure he'll be back soon enough, though.

'Good!' Arthur beamed. 'You can stay as long as you like, you know. Plenty of room.'

'Thanks, Arthur,' Mel laughed. 'I'm having some breakfast, can I get you anything?'

'Mel, I've told you before. Just ask Alice and she'll knock something up for you!'

'No offence, but I like doing things myself. Tastes nicer, I think.'

'Suit yourself.' Arthur shrugged, pushing the wheelchair down the hall.

 _'_ _Recognise it?'_

 _The Doctor fanned himself with the panama hat, hooking the umbrella onto his jacket pocket. The sweltering heat was already starting to get to him._

 _Mel looked around the area. It did seem to ring a bell, her eidetic memory racing to make the connection. And then it hit her._

 _'_ _It's Pease Pottage!' she cried, looking around to make sure. 'You've brought me home!'_

 _'_ _Almost.' the Doctor replied. 'This is indeed Pease Pottage, in the year 192…' he took a leaf from a nearby tree and examined it for a second '…4. A fine year!'_

 _'_ _1924?'_

 _'_ _Fairly peaceful at this point in history. A good rest. Just over there…' the Doctor grinned, as he pointed towards a small valley. '…is the Jericho Manor boarding house. I arranged for you to stay there for a few weeks.'_

 _'_ _Me? Aren't you coming as well?'_

 _'_ _Business to attend to. Peace treaties, conferences, vampires, all very dull. I thought you'd enjoy this locale somewhat more.'_

 _'_ _It's lovely! Are you…sure you're not staying?'_

 _'_ _Positive. Don't worry, I'll only be a few days, a week at most. Now, you get packed, while I get you checked in.'_

 _And with that, he replaced the hat on his head, and marched across the green._

 _Mel practically ran back into her room, bounding with every step. Granted, Pease Pottage was hardly the most exciting place in the world, but it somewhere familiar, somewhere quiet._

 _Her room was a perpetual mess in the TARDIS; a by-product of constantly having to change clothes due to dirt, sweat and laser damage, but having too little time to give it a decent clean. Whenever she couldn't sleep, she'd start to pile up some of the books and arrange them on the shelf, or start a pile of washing to put away, but she'd always fall asleep before finishing the task._

 _As a result, there was always a few books close enough to alphabetical order on the shelf, as well as just many in a heap on the floor. Next to the series of books was a small frame, borrowed from the TARDIS library. Inside was a postcard, still as gleaming as the day she had bought it._

 _One of the very last things she had done before leaving Pease Pottage was buy a postcard from the gift shop. Ever since she left school, she'd watched her friends who had left to travel around the world depart her, one by one. They all packed their bags, spouting promises of returning one day, wiser, older, more mature._

 _Of course, only a quarter ever came back. They all settled down in foreign lands, having met someone, or gotten a better job, or just preferred the weather._

 _Hence the postcard. Every time she went to sleep, the last thing she'd see was her home, reminding her every single day. Whenever she was tempted to jump ship and stay on a starship thousands of years in the future, or marry some alien warrior king, she'd think of this postcard. She'd think of the home she'd be leaving behind._

 _The TARDIS, on top of being bigger-on-the-inside and a time machine, was also capable of laundry, it would appear. Whenever she returned, the clothes had been cleaned, ironed and repaired in her absence, saving her the job of doing it herself._

 _With a sense of rush, she tossed items of clothing into the bag, haphazard and frantic. Prior to any holidays as a child, her mother had always made her pack the bag neatly, so that she could fit everything in. However, it was evident that precisely none of this had rubbed off on Mel. There'll be an iron at the house, wouldn't there?_

 _Mel threw the bag over her shoulder, and traipsed through the winding corridors of the TARDIS back to the console room and through the double door. Silently, she bid the ship goodbye, even if it was only temporary._

 _Outside, the Doctor was waiting for her. 'Ready?' he asked, holding a key aloft._

 _'_ _I think so…' Mel replied uncertainly, checking through her bag for any last minute discrepancies. 'There's a shop in Pease Pottage, isn't there? Yes, of course there'll be!'_

 _The Doctor tossed her the key. She caught it instinctively._

 _'_ _Now, try to stay out of trouble. There's some local currency in your bag, should you need to buy anything. And most importantly…' he told her, adding a dark cadence to his instructions. He crossed the threshold of the TARDIS. 'Have fun!' he called gleefully from within._

 _Mel watched the blue box shift in and out of reality, before disappearing into nothingness, like dust on the wind. With a small sigh, she started the trek to the house._

Mel poured the boiling water into the mug, being careful to avoid splashing herself with by accident. Gently, she lowered the kettle back onto the stove, flicking the gas off as she did.

This was the start of her tenth day in the house now. The Doctor was, ironically, never one for keeping time, but it was in situations such as this that she started to get worried. The living conditions of the house a small degree of getting used to; the lack of a shower, for example, greatly slowed down the progress of her mornings. But it wasn't long before she had adapted, and was living in this time as if she had been there all her life.

Pouring in a small measure of milk, Mel mixed the tea and took a tentative sip. If there was one thing she missed most of all, it was teabags. If she wanted a cup of tea, she had to pour in spoonfuls of tealeaves into the strainer, then boil the kettle on the gas stove. Finally, she'd pour the mixture into the cup, doing her best to avoid swallowing any of the leaves.

Overall, it reminded more than a little of when they to stay with her great-aunt Vivian in the Easter holidays. Everything in her house was from the 1940s at latest, including most of the food.

Mel raised up the cup and walked towards the window. The sun had finished its morning rise, and was down sitting comfortably an inch or so above the horizon. Judging by the perfect azure hue of the sky, it was going to be a beautifully sunny day.

'You're early again, ma'am.' rang a puckish voice from behind. Mel spun on her heels, to see Maisy in the doorway.

Maisy was one of the other guests in the house. Whilst others had come or gone during Mel's stay so far, Maisy had been there the whole time. Upon hearing the Sussex accent stream through Mel's lips for the first time, the Northerner had made it a constant habit to refer to her as 'ma'am.

At first, Mel had frowned a little at this; she was hardly the only person in the house with such an accent. But, she had later reasoned, she was the only _guest_ who did - annoying one of the staff was probably not very high on Maisy's to-do list.

'Couldn't get back to sleep.' Mel grinned back, taking another bite of the apple.

'Any plans for today, ma'am?'

'Not really. I was thinking about going into Pease Pottage later, though.'

'Dunno why you'd want to. Sod all to do.'

Mel felt a slight tinge of infuriation at the last remark. Granted, she'd never felt much love for her town even as a child, but it was still _her_ town.

'I think it looks quite interesting.' Mel sniffed back, trying her best to remain amicable.

'Each to their own, ma'am.' Maisy nodded, before grabbing a bowl of porridge and leaving.

Professor Oakley stepped into the library, taking great pains to lock the door behind him. As the thin metal bolt clicked into place, he turned around, sighing with content.

With long, spindly fingers, he plucked a book from the shelf, and rested it down on the table. The action shook a thin layer of dust from the binding, and some more from the top of the table.

He peered out of the window. It was on the second floor, so nobody could spy on him from the outside, and he had locked the only door in or out. He was completely isolated.

Picking on the first jaundiced page, he turned it and started to read.

 _'_ _Mel!'_

 _The console room was juddering around like an earthquake was raging underneath. The hatstand had toppled over and was rolling around; the straw hat had tucked itself in a little corner somewhere._

 _The Doctor clung onto the console, ten finger-slips from crashing onto the ground. Trepidatiously, he reached out for the nearest switch. The moment his outreached finger made contact, he flicked downwards._

 _In a second, the console room was restored to normal. With baited breath, the Doctor half-expected the room to tip on its side again, throwing him against the wall – or floor, in this case._

 _But alas, the situation held. The Doctor breathed a sigh of relief, before releasing the console from his grip._

 _'_ _Another happy landing, eh, Mel?' he asked pleasantly, brushing the hat of any dust. For a few seconds, he waited for a response, before turning around. 'Oh,' he murmured, taking in the empty room._

 _When he was alone in the TARDIS, it was like a home with no children. Far too quiet for his liking. Scowling slightly, he stepped towards the console and pulled the red lever._

 _At least when he was alone, he could finally have some peaceful time alone with his thoughts. But, then again, his thoughts weren't exactly the nicest of things to be alone with…_

The door hinges creaked slightly, as Mel opened the door ajar and poked her head through.

'Hello, Miss Bush.' smiled Alice, as she made the bed. 'Come to fetch your boots?'

According to the many times Arthur had recounted the tale, Alice had barely aged a day since they opened the house. She still held her hair in the same brunette waterfall, with the same button nose and same eager, green eyes. She reminded Mel quite a bit of a girl she used to go to school with – then again, this was the same village. Perhaps there was a familial connection.

'Yes, I'm just going down to the village in a minute.' Mel replied, digging around the room. Now that she'd been given a clean slate of a room, she made certain to keep it spotless. But it didn't stop Alice from giving it a quick once-over just to be sure.

'Just by the closet.' Alice pointed. On the floor, as she said, was a pair of well-worn boots, salvaged from the TARDIS wardrobe. Mel had worn them on her trek to the Andes with the Doctor, and found them most useful.

'Anywhere in particular?'

Mel paused, carefully choosing her answer. In honesty, she was looking for a tree, in the village square. Her mother had always told her the story of the tree – how it was planted during the armistice, and had survived a whole other war, and was still standing to this day. Whilst most places erected monoliths in memory of those lost, the village council had decided a sapling better fitted the budget.

In 1924, it wouldn't be much more than that same sapling, but she was still awfully interested to find it.

'Not really.' she eventually decided. 'Just fancied a wander.'

'Well, we're locking up at eight today. Arthur said I could have the night off.'

'That's nice of him. Anything planned?'

'There's the dinner party Arthur's having, and then I've got some books to catch up on,' Alice grinned, before heading towards the door. 'Agatha Christie.'

'Oh, I love those! Have you read the one about the train?'

'…Sorry?'

Silently, Mel cursed herself. The Doctor had warned her often enough about how loose lips sinks ships, and that slightest future detail could wreak havoc on the timeline in new and unimaginable ways. And here she was, giving away the plot of a book that hadn't been released yet.

'No, that's Gaston Leroux! Sorry!' Mel laughed, hoping to smooth over the error. 'Always get them mixed up.'

'I see…' Alice murmured, eyeing the door inconspicuously. Clearly, she was hoping to make a quick getaway from the conversation.

'Well, I won't keep you.' Mel said, sensing the awkwardness. 'Got to be going.'

'Very good. See you tonight, I hope.'

 _Half a dozen pairs of polished white boots stomped across the steel floor, in perfectly time with each other. The white jumpsuits, weaved from interwoven, specially made bulletproof fabric, swished back and forth in the same tempo._

 _They rounded the corner, and ground to a halt. Six identical assault rifles raised in the air, six safeties clicked off and six bullets lay waiting in the chambers._

 _Before them, their target lay waiting._

 _The Doctor stepped out of the TARDIS, making sure to lock the door behind him._

 _'_ _Turn around, and hands in the air.'_

 _He froze, making sure to lift his hands out of his pockets. He'd only just stepped out of the TARDIS, and already there were guns aimed at him. Not a good start at all._

 _'_ _Turn around, and hands in the air!' the same voice snarled, motioning with the gun. The Doctor did so, pirouetting on the spot._

 _Each of the guards was clad completely in white, from steel-tips of the boots to reinforced plating of the helmets. A tinted visor covered their eyes, no doubt a computer screen of some sort._

 _'_ _If you'd like to come with us…' one of the troopers barked, as the front two moved behind the Doctor. They both jabbed their rifles into his back, sending him forward with a jolt._

 _They started to march down the corridor, the Doctor with his hands raised involuntary the whole time. The corridors seemed to go on forever, something the Doctor had much more experience in then necessary. The sleek grey floor blended seamlessly into the sleek grey walls, which in turn met the roof. A series of ridges were imprinted in the roof and walls, presumably a series of bulkheads waiting to be released._

 _The last bulkhead slide open, revealing a sparkling room of blinking lights and chirping sounds. As the Doctor stepped through, his escorts passed over the threshold. The bulkhead slide shut again._

The figure slid across the ground, completely indifferent to any wind or force. If its feet – if it _had_ any feet – were moving, there was no sign; the black shawl completely covering the figure. It ran across the smooth floor like a paintbrush across a canvas, leaving no trace in its stead.

The blinding sunlight didn't affect it. The gusts of wind did not sway its path. The crumpling of the blades of grass beneath it crackled in futile resistance, before the figure moved on.

Creeping from one place to the next, it moved through the house, no more than a spectre.

Mel sat down on a rock for a moment, gratefully taking in a gasp of fresh, British air. Over the course of her travels in the TARDIS, she'd become rather used to the sterile feel of artificial oxygen of the starships, or the strange stench of alien worlds. At last, it was good to have a good lungful of country air.

Digging into her pocket, she pulled out an intricately-engraved pocket watch, lent to her from the Doctor's personal collection – from the more ornate end, she noted to herself. 'Better suited to the time period', he had remarked at the time.

According to the watch, it was just gone five. She'd spent most of the morning walking to the village and back, working up a fine appetite in the process. The sapling had been there, but the novelty soon wore off after the first viewing. So, she removed a few pennies from the bag the Doctor gave her and sat in the tearoom for an hour or so, nibbling at the cake and watching the world go by.

At last, she started to make her way back to the house, half-wandering through the lush countryside.

Tonight, she decided, she'd investigate the library. The collection of books it held seemed impressive enough at a first glance, but she was yet to discover just what was available.

The house was just on the horizon, a small square of white against the green. In hindsight, she'd taken the long way round; the scenic route, as the Doctor would have put it. Instead of going down the footpath, she'd tried to cut across the field and ended taking up a wrong turn somewhere.

Still, it didn't really matter – she wasn't in any rush.

With a small sigh, she raised herself to her feet once more, and started to head back to the house.

Professor Oakley placed the sixth cup of tea down amongst the first five, all of them now almost completely empty. They were starting to clutter up the desk a little, so he moved them onto a disused bookshelf for the time being.

His hand was starting to cramp from the work, the build-up of lactic acid prompting him to rest from the work and massage his aching palm every now and then. It was really a most troublesome effort; at best, it still cost him valuable time that could be spent working.

The first guest knocked twice, a tentatively _rap-rap_ against the thin wood. It was Alice, bringing a seventh cup, filled with the light brown mixture. He smuggled it through the ajar door, muttering his thanks and returning to his work.

The second guest knocked once, a hefty _thunk_ as fist met plywood. Peering through the crack, Arthur greeting him, asking how the work was going and if he'd be staying for another night. As the social niceties diminished, the phatic conversation soon turned to the real purpose of the visit. Oakley tossed a small wad of notes into Arthur's lap, enough money for the rest of the month, at least. Grumbling to himself about ignorant disruptions, Oakley bolted the door once more and sitting down at the desk.

The third guest didn't knock.

 _'_ _Trouble with the staff?'_

 _The Doctor was fiddling with one of the buttons, as the guard constantly swatted his hand away from the distraction._

 _'_ _I'll ask again,' said the man dressed entirely in black this time 'What were you doing in the Omega Sector?'_

 _'_ _There's been a misunderstanding.' the Doctor eventually, facing the man. 'I didn't mean to land here – at least, I don't think so.'_

 _'_ _Teleport capsules are forbidden in this area.' the man scoffed, typing something into the computer quickly before returning to his prey. 'So how did you get in?'_

 _'_ _A teleport capsule.'_

 _'_ _They're forbidden. They don't work!'_

 _'_ _A very good teleport capsule.'_

 _'_ _Well,' the man sighed, crossing his arms. 'I can see this isn't going to get us anywhere._

 _'_ _Most likely not.' agreed the Doctor, as he sprang from the seat 'So, if you'd be so gracious, would I be able to leave?'_

 _'_ _Certainly not. You two,' the man pointed to two of the white-clad guards 'Take him to the cells. See he doesn't get hurt…' he shot a glance at the Doctor's diminutive form '…too badly.'_

 _'_ _Yes, sir.' both guards grunted in happy unison, as they each grabbed one of the Doctor's arms and dragged him away, the hissing bulkhead heralding their departure._

Mel slipped off the muddy boots, letting the traces of dirt dry off before she took them inside the houses. Mud was always difficult to wash away, especially when wet, and Alice seemed to have more than enough jobs as it was.

Barefoot, she headed back to her room. The house had reached that lull that always came in the afternoon; the residents were currently slumped in the dip between lunch and dinner.

As she walked down the upstairs corridor, she stopped suddenly outside one of the doors. It was the same as the rest, with no markings or lettering stencilled on it. She reached out a hand, and wrapped it around the doorknob.

'Wouldn't go in there if I were you.'

Mel turned around to see Maisy approaching. 'The Professor's in there. Doesn't like being disturbed whilst he's working.'

'The Professor?'

'Professor Oakley. According to Alice, he comes by every now and then, has a look through the books and scarpers. Nobody knows what he's working on.'

'Oh, alright. I just wanted to have a look around, see what books there are.'

Maisy's nose wrinkled. 'Books? What'd you want books for?'

'I just wanted something to read.' Mel shrugged. 'It's alright, I can wait until after we eat.'

'If the duffer's finished.' Maisy laughed. 'Last time I saw him in there, he didn't come out for days on end.'

Mel grinned at the thought. 'That sounds a lot like my friend.'

'What, obsessed with his work?'

'No, he always forgets that time passes.' Mel grinned, as she passed Maisy and exited the corridor.

As she returned to her room, she made a mental note to return to the library tomorrow. If there was one thing this holiday had been missing so far, it was a decent read.

She'd spent the best part of her summer holidays in the library, engrossing herself in the shelves of books. After a few years of attempting and failing to make any firm friends, she eventually surrendered the idea and chose a few hours of reading every day.

Despite the fact that she'd read every book in the library (granted, it was hardly the Bodleian, but still) and could recite all of them from memory, she found that the experience was just as fascinating, amusing and thrilling with each re-read.

Then again, her travels with the Doctor had provided an almost inescapable distraction from her reading. If she had any spare time aboard the TARDIS,

That evening, the sepulchre booming of the dinner gong sounded throughout the house. It certainly a rather gothic feature; in fact, it was actually bought as a joke upon the house's opening. However, Alice the task above the rest, and gleefully sounded the chime whenever Arthur was in a particularly benevolent mood and felt like the house could do with a dinner party.

Mel shot up from her bed, instinctively flinching a little at the sound. She soon soothed herself, and walked down the stairs for the meal. Arthur had told her that it'd be casual, with no need to make an impression, but the styles of the era was one of the appeals to Mel. Whenever they went somewhere, she always tried to make an effort and blend in. This often meant adopting the local style and fashions.

At the moment, she was wearing a sheer black dress that cut off around the knees, discretely borrowed from Maisy's collections. According to the fellow guest, it looked nice - personally, she thought she looked as if she belonged in a fancy-dress party.

The dinner table had been laid out with all the finery collected by Arthur over the years; plates, cutlery, and so forth. Alice, Maisy and Arthur were already sat at the table, with a trio of full wine glasses on the table. As Mel lowered down the stairs, Alice took the bottle of wine and started on a fourth glass.

'Good evening, Melanie,' greeted Arthur, raising his glass 'You look lovely, as usual.'

'Thank you, Arthur.' Mel replied, reaching the table. 'Where's the Professor?'

'Hmm? Oh, still busying about in the library, I'd imagine. Go and fetch him, would you, Alice?'

Alice nodded, as she put the napkin on the table and started to rise from her seat.

'It's alright, I'll go.' Mel said. 'I'm up already. Won't be a sec.'

'Very well,' decided Arthur.

Mel returned to the patch of corridor from earlier. This time, she tried the door handle. Whilst it rattled and moved a little, it didn't open.

As she turned to return to the hall, Alice approached her. 'Hasn't he unlocked it yet?' she asked, inspecting the knob for herself. 'He's most likely fallen asleep. He's always like that, Professor Oakley. Working himself to death and ignoring the consequences.'

'I don't suppose you've got a key?'

'As luck would have it…' Alice smirked, before pulling a thin strip of metal out of her pocket, with one side smooth, the other jagged. The key.

Alice inserted into the lock, and twisted it around. The door gave a resounding _clunk_ , before giving way to the push. As the hinges creaked and groaned under the minuscule pressure, the door opened.

Mel did her best not to gag at the sight.


	3. Chapter 2: The Body In The Library

Chapter 2: The Body in the Library

The body was laying spread-eagled on the floor, each limb stretched out like a spider. The eyes gazed steadfastly at the ceiling, constantly crying out for help that would never arrive in time. The mouth was slightly agape, the muscles in the jaw no longer having the energy to keep it clamped shut.

In the centre of the body, a small sea of red had flowed from the pierce in the flesh. It stained the otherwise pristine white shirt, and had already started to coagulated and solidify together. On the top of the head, the few clumps of hair that had lasted the weathering years of stress were dishevelled, on the brink of falling out themselves.

The desk, just to the side of the room, had been emptied of its contents. Instead, they were spread out across the floor, scattered in a haphazard mess. The pens were tossed about; the papers were crumpled and disordered; the small piles of books had been thrown the floor, detaching some of the yellowed pages.

The blood had started to seep into the floorboards, trickling between the cracks in the wood. On the shelf opposite, the six cups of tea had been thrown to the floor and shattered, the remaining drops of tea spilling onto the floor.

'Oh my god…' murmured Alice, throwing her hand over her mouth. 'The Professor…he's…he's…'

'Go and get the others.' Mel ordered, guiding the other woman out of the library. 'I'll stay here and watch him.'

Alice nodded a few confused nods, before half-running, half-staggering through the doorway.

After watching her leave, Mel shut the door, checking for any signs of the killer. The stench of death was already beginning to assert itself in the room, hanging off of the musty air. Mel tried to ignore it, and focus as much as she could on the job at hand.

The library had one door in and out, which had definitely been locked. There was a single window across the room, however. A possibility?

Mel crossed over towards it, taking great pains to avoid the puddle of blood that had started to dribble onto the floor. As far as she could tell, the window opened a good few inches. Maybe enough for someone to slip through, especially if they were slight of frame…

But it was on the second floor. Even the most experienced of paratroopers would struggle at avoiding a twisted ankle – the uneven surface below would make certain of that.

The sun had started to set already, but the remaining embers of sunlight still granted Mel enough sight to set the surrounding areas. She couldn't see anyone, or anything, for that matter, in the area around the house. Then again, the killer could be hours away by now.

'Pretty unlikely.' she heard a voice say from the doorframe. As she spun on the balls of her feet, she saw Arthur, wavering just beyond the threshold. 'Had someone try that a few months back. Broke their leg, bedridden for 4 months. It's a lot further down that it looks.'

'I see.' Mel replied. 'Have you called the police?'

'Maisy is doing it now. Our line's broken, but there's a phone box quarter of a mile or so down the road. She shouldn't be long.'

'Oh, that's good.' Mel breathed a sigh of relief. At least the situation was somewhat under control. 'I'm sorry, but can you think of anyone that would want to do this?'

'Anyone that knew him.' Arthur replied, not taking his eyes off of the body. After a moment, he looked up to Mel, smiling slightly. 'I think it would be best if we left all questions of that manner until the constabulary arrive.'

He started to wheel himself away from the library. 'Actually, would you like to join us for dinner?'

'I think I've lost my appetite.' Mel remarked, her stomach curdling at the thought.

'Still, it'd be better if we could keep an eye on each other. For safety reasons,' he added hastily.

'I suppose you're right.' Mel agreed. Carefully stepping around the body, she exited the library, shutting the door behind her.

Alice was sat frozen in her chair, too scared to move. The quartet of glasses were still in place, each of them filled halfway with the deep crimson fluid. An '03, Arthur had told her, as they dug it out of the cellar. Naturally, that didn't mean a thing to her; wine was just one of the many topics on which she considered herself to be a philistine – Arthur had often remarked that she wouldn't know the champagne from the shambolic.

Maisy had left ten minutes ago, pulling Arthur's overcoat on as she did. This time of year was notorious for the polarized nature of the weather; it would peak in the day then plummet at night.

Across the table, all five of the plates were prepared. Roast beef, with gravy and potatoes. Arthur had been saving it up for weeks, just to treat the guests out of his own pocket. And now, of course, one of those plates wouldn't be eaten. It would stay there, on the plate, forevermore.

There was a room upstairs, full of clothes that would never be worn again. Books that would never be read again. Friends that would never be known; family that would never be loved. A whole life that would never be lived, gone like dust on the wind.

The front door slammed open, snapping Alice out of her reverie. Maisy burst into the room, shutting the door sharply behind her.

'I…went to…the phone box…' she gulped, in between gasps of breath. 'It's…been dis…disconnected.'

'What?!' Alice cried, leaping from her seat. 'Disconnected? How?'

'Cut the phone lines.' Maisy took a swig of the wine, swallowing it in one. 'Where's the nearest phone?'

Alice took a tentative glance at the window. 'It's gone dark now.' she sighed, biting her lip. 'We'll have to wait until morning.'

'What? We can't leave 'til morning! There's a killer on the loose!'

'Well, you can't very well go wandering off in the dark, can you? You'll get lost.'

'No, I won't.'

'We're not risking it. Mel and Arthur will be back here in a moment, and we can come up with a plan then.'

Alice marked her resistance by sitting down in the chair, emphasising the rebellion.

'Alright,' Maisy replied, walking over to her seat. 'Alright. But if you wake up in the middle of the night horrifically murdered, just don't come crying to me.'

'How would I wake up if I've been murdered?'

'You know what I mean.'

Alice opted to leave the point, wishing to avoid any further conflict.

'Don't know about you,' Maisy started, slicing up a roast potato and spearing it with her fork 'but I'm not sleeping a wink tonight.' She shoved the cluster of potato into her mouth and start to chew.

'No, I don't think I will, either.' Alice agreed. 'And this was supposed to be my night off as well!'

'I daresay you'll get another.' Arthur chuckled quietly, as he rolled into the room. 'After all, you've earnt it.'

'Maisy!' Mel said, walking over to her. 'Did you manage to ring the police?'

'The line's been cut off,' Maisy shook her head sorrowfully. 'And we don't know where the next one is.'

'Well, it's not safe to go gallivanting off in the dark at the best of times,' Arthur decided abruptly 'especially when there's dangerous sorts on the loose. Tonight, we all stay here.'

'I'm agreeing with Arthur.' Mel said, sitting at the table. She went to take a sip of the wine, but stopped herself. At the moment, it still held too much similitude to the blood spilling across the library floor.

'And me.' Alice concurred.

'So we're unanimous!' Arthur cheered. 'That's settled.'

'Scuse me?' Maisy rang up 'What about me? Don't I get a say?'

'It's three to one, dear,' Arthur answered. 'You're over-ruled as it is.'

Maisy pouted at the response, sitting down on the chair in a sulk.

 _'_ _Are you sure this is quite safe?'_

 _The Doctor watched as one of the guards threw his umbrella into a cubby hole built into the wall, along with the panama hat. The hatch swung shut, sealing itself with an electronic click._

 _'_ _Safe enough.' the other guard mumbled back. 'Just stand still, and you'll be fine.'_

 _The cells was a room, about the length and width of a hangar bay, but only a storey or so tall. Dotted around the floor was a series of glass circles, each of them 7 feet in diameter._

 _Currently, the Doctor was stood on top of a similar circle, except it was made of the same metal as the rest of the deck. As the guard pulled a small switch on the wall, the circle started to hiss, as it slowly sank into the deck. The cylindrical walls rose up, until they towered over the Doctor._

 _As another switch was pressed, two half-moon shaped panes of glass slid through a slit, joining together above the cell. The computer beeped, to signal the completion of the task._

 _'_ _Very neat…' the Doctor mumbled, in mock admiration. 'Just as long as you don't get them the wrong way round!'_

 _'_ _You'll be nice and safe in there!' one of the guards chortled, standing on top of the glass pane. 'Don't worry, we'll check back on you soon. Bye!'_

 _Both guards stepped out of sight. Presumably, they exited through the door, but the cell muffled the sound of the clunky bulkhead opening and shutting._

 _For a few minutes, the Doctor paced about his cell. It was the same size as the glass circle – 7 foot from side to side, in a perfect circle – and about eight feet high. If he jumped, he could just about touch the glass. A quick feel told him that it was actually double-reinforced magna-panes, built to resist atom bombs if necessary. There goes any hopes of smashing them._

 _The walls, as far as her could ascertain, were solid metal, probably the same alloy as the rest of the ship. A few raps with his fist returned with a dull knocking – it's not hollow. All in all, there wasn't much he could do._

 _One thing he bitterly noticed was the lack of a bed. With most cells, they gave you a chance to catch forty winks whilst coming up with an escape plan, but not this time. The floor was just as uncomfortable as the walls, ice cold and rock hard._

 _Looks like the treaty will have to wait, he noted. Fortunately, he still had quite literally all the time in the world, a distinct advantage in having a time machine. You're never late, or early; you arrive precisely when you mean to._

 _He tested the walls, and found it to be completely solid. No chance of breaking through, then. After a few leaps in a bid to reach the roof, he gave up and resigned to pacing around the cell in a rough circle._

 _After an hour or so of the pacing, he grew bored of the monotony, and started to dig through his pockets. Thankfully, they'd forgotten to search inside of the pockets – oh, there'd been a quick pat-down, of course, but that hadn't revealed any of his hidden assets._

 _He emptied them onto the cell floor, a bizarre gallimaufry of items: A yo-yo, a ball of twine, a Tenalian credit, a dog whistle, a sub-etha thumb, a packet of chewing-gum, a torch, an original paperback edition of 'The Mystery of the Yellow Room', a small paper bag of liquorice allsorts (funny…they should be Jelly Babies…) and a few coins from different Earth eras. Absolutely nothing of any use._

 _Shoving the menagerie into a rough pile, he stretched out one leg, attempting to alleviate the ache brought on by the bruises._

 _He tugged off the light beige jacket and balled it up, attempting to use it as a pillow of some sort. Alas, it was more comfortable than the floor; albeit scarcely. Sighing to himself, he rolled onto his back, staring at the harsh neon light projecting into his cell._

'It was one of us.'

Mel looked up from the table, searching for the source. Maisy was finishing off her meal, mopping up the last of the gravy; Arthur was musing over the patterns in the wood; Alice was staring at the floor beneath.

'I mean, it has to be.' Mel realised it was Alice. 'Professor Oakley arrived on the train, he always does. It'd have been much easier to kill him there than here. Which means that one of us is the killer.'

'Not necessarily, my dear.' Arthur said. 'It might've been an accident.'

'Yeah,' agreed Maisy facetiously 'Happens all the time, doesn't it? You're sitting at a desk, doing your work, then bam! There's a knife in your chest. Before you know what's happening, you're dead.'

'I never said it was a knife…' Arthur mumbled to himself.

'Hardly a papercut, was it?'

'I think,' Mel started, hoping to diffuse the situation. 'It would be best if we just left it alone for a while.'

'I quite agree.' Arthur replied wholeheartedly. 'Last thing we need is an argument. Melanie, will you be eating tonight?'

'No, thank you,' she said, pushing the plate away. 'I'm not hungry.'

'I'll have it,' offered Maisy, as she grabbed the full plate and dug into the beef. 'I'm starving.'

'You're quite calm about the whole affair.' Alice noted.

'Just got a strong stomach, that's all.'

'Yes, I can tell,' Alice muttered, eyeing the small mountain of food before her.'

'What I want to know,' Mel rang up 'is how they managed to get out of the room, whoever it was. Well, the door was locked and they window was too far of a drop.'

'I clean that window every other week,' Alice nodded in response 'There isn't a ledge or drainpipe nearby. No way to…shimmy into another room or the ground.'

'Is there another way out of the library?'

Arthur shook his head slowly and pensively. 'Not that I know off. Solid brick walls – have been ever since I bought the place.'

'I think we can safely say that if Arthur doesn't know about it,' Mel decided 'then no-one does.'

'Which rather leaves the question.'

The figure swept through the fields. If any of the rampant creatures roaming the area noticed it, they chose to ignore it, hoping that they themselves would avoid detection. Every single instinct of theirs was screaming at the mind, telling them to run as far and as fast as they could.

At the moment, it was stalking around the hunting grounds, waiting for its prey to make their move. The traces of blood had at last vanished, wiping away on the various foliage.

Thankfully, it didn't leave any footprints behind it, making a pursuit completely devoid of successful. The darkened nature of the clothing disguised it amongst the black hue above.

The symptoms of life did not affect it; there was no cumbersome breath, or tell-tale heart pumping away in the sternum. For all intents and purposes, it was the walking dead; a shadow brought to life.

 _The light flashed in the darkness. No, hang on a minute…that wasn't quite right._

 _The Doctor screwed up his eyes, clearing his vision of the blurriness, and opened them again. The light stayed as permanent as it had been the whole time. He'd just fallen asleep, against all odds._

 _Groaning quietly, he sat upright, rubbing his eyes of the fatigue. He went to check his watch for the time elapsed, but stopped himself – they'd confiscated it upon his capture._

 _In order to wake himself up, he started to pace around the circumference of the cell a few times. Presumably, there was a small vent somewhere permitting air to enter and removing the carbon dioxide – death by suffocation wasn't part of the sentence._

 _He traced his hand over the wall, his index finger finding a pinprick in the wall. A current sucked in the flesh, attaching it to the wall. So that was one of the vents._

 _As he looked more closely, he could spot a series of the holes, poked in a rough circle around the wall. 12 in total, like a particularly abstract clock. That meant 6 for air, 6 for carbon. Best not to cover them up, then._

 _He returned to the centre of the cell, sitting on the cold metal floor cross-legged. Amongst the pile of items, he produced the novel, and started to read._

'What time is it?' Mel yawned, covering her mouth in discretion.

'Just gone nine,' Arthur muttered back, checking the watch in his hand. The chill of the night had certainly started to set in, with beads of condensation forming on the window.

The group had moved from the dining table to the living room, all of them either surrendering the idea of eating completely or satisfied by the meal. They sat in silence, all of them too frightened to make a sound; of squeaking into the abyss.

Mel watched as Alice jabbed at the smouldering log with the poker, hoping to lure a flame into the gathering of wood in the fireplace; alas, it was to no avail. The room stayed as cold as the world outside.

'Mel, you were wandering about before,' Maisy had said at last. 'You went into the village. Did you see anything strange?'

'Not that I can think of.' Mel replied ruefully. 'Sorry. I wasn't looking.'

'It's alright, my dear.' Arthur smiled. 'Nothing you could've done.' He patted Mel's legs to comfort her.

A few moments of silence arrived, broken only by the flicking of the matches and eventual crackling of flames. Alice sat back on the carpet, content with her work.

The embers leaped into the air, soaring through the warmth and falling down to earth once more, as the flames licked around the logs and warped the wood into shapes. The edges of the branches curled and twisted under the heat, before falling themselves into the auric haze.

'So what are going to do with him?' the Commander asked, leaning back in his chair. 'He doesn't turn up on any of our records. No records of him entering the ship, but there won't be any of him leaving. Any suggestions, fellas?'

The two guards stood before him, stood as tall as they could manage. Figures of immaculacy, they gazed indifferently at the wall before them.

'I believe, sir,' one of them spoke at last 'that we are due for a refuse disposal in the next cycle. There's a lot of junk in there. It gets incinerated, unless I'm very much mistaken. No trace.'

The commander's lip curled at the thought. 'Yes, it is. Very good. How long until the disposal cycle?'

'Half an hour, sir.'

'Sufficient time to retrieve the prisoner, then.'

'If I may, sir. The prisoner was quite difficult to take to the cells. He may try to cause trouble again.'

'I see what you mean. Are the darts loaded?'

'Yes.'

'Good. Clear the ducts.

The scant gusts of wind ruffled the leaves gently, as the branches rocked back and forth.

Mel let out a whispering breath onto the panel of glass, watching the mist form on the glass and slowly evaporate into nothingness.

The orange blur of the fire was reflected in the window, casting a facsimile of warmth out into the garden.

As she blinked, there was a sudden burst of blackness. A few of the leaves, clumped together, were blotted out for a split second, another few millimetres of dark amongst the rest.

Mel looked in closer, and the leaves returned to normal, the same dark emerald as the rest. She shook her head, and returned to the group.

'See anything interested?' Maisy asked, with just a hint of sarcasm. 'The killer, perhaps?'

'Just a couple of trees. Nothing much.'

Arthur laughed for a moment, before shifting uncomfortably in his chair.

'You alright, Arthur?' Maisy asked, heading over towards him. 'You keep fidgeting about.'

'Oh, it's, it's nothing.' Arthur protested, as Maisy reached into the chair. She found her target; slowly, she withdrew it from the folds of the chair.

'What…is _this_?!' Maisy asked, holding the items aloft in her hands. Mel instantly recognised the long, thin shaft of black metal. connected to the bulbous body and curved limb.

A revolver.

'My old service,' muttered Arthur gruffly, trying to avoid the topic, with no large degree of success. 'I, er, borrowed it after the war ended.'

'Oh, well, that's alright, then.' Maisy remarked, lowering the gun to the coffee table as it were red-hot. 'I mean, we've got a killer in our midst and a secret gunman – but there's no problem, is there?!'

'Don't be ridiculous, Maisy!' Arthur almost shouted, barely restraining himself at the last second. 'If you care to inspect the gun, you'll find that it hasn't been fired since 1917!'

'And the Professor wasn't shot,' Alice added eagerly.

'Not to mention the fact that it would hardly be the most ingenious stratagem to murder someone, and then carry the weapon on my person!'

Maisy mulled the information over, before sitting back down in the chair. 'Alright. So why is the Old Man of the Hill packing heat, then?'

'Self defence!' Arthur cried, his hands flailing in the air. 'If this killer does come along, then I at least want a decent shot at him!'

'Murder weapon.' Mel said suddenly. All three heads turned to face her.

'What was that?'

'The murder weapon. Where did it go?'

Maisy shrugged. 'The killer most made off with it. Took it with him.'

'But why? If you're wearing gloves, then you might as well leave it behind. It'd be found anyway, and you're not risking being found with the weapon on you,' Mel reasoned, standing up as she did so. 'So it must be around here somewhere.'

'What do you suggest?' Arthur replied 'We find the weapon…then what?'

'We can at least find out _how_ it was done, if not who.' Mel decided, walking into the centre of the room with a new-found strength.

 _With a heavy sigh, the Doctor finished the page. He licked his finger, and flicked onto the next._

 _After another moment of reading, he folded the corner over, and shut the book. It would be just as simple for him to speed through the book in a matter of seconds, but he reasoned that he had time to kill. Instead, he excruciated over each and every word, reading it two or three times to drag out the process as much as possible._

 _Whilst it gave him something to do, he was starting to regret it._

 _He stood up, stretching his arms and legs to wake them up. A second of the strain passed, and he released them._

 _There was a momentary hiss of air, followed shortly by a whizzing sound. Instinctively, the Doctor flinched to one side, almost toppling himself over in the process. For a moment, he was dazed, unaware of what had just happened._

 _On one of the walls, a small dart, no larger than an inch, was embedded into the metal, denting the surface barely, but enough to hold itself. The Doctor pulled it from the metal with a twang, and gingerly sniffed the end._

 _'_ _Tranquilisers.' he murmured to himself, before carefully placing the dart behind his ear. This wasn't good._

 _With another puff of air, a second dart flew from the wall, and a second, and a third. The Doctor leapt this way and that, just about avoiding the sting of the darts – thanks to his superior reflexes, no doubt._

 _'_ _What on Earth…' he mumbled, tucking himself away on the floor. He saw the fourth dart shoot from one of the air ducts, revealing their source. So. They weren't just air ducts, it would seem._

 _The Doctor crawled across the floor, dodging the ever-increasing storm of darts above him. They were expertly timed, to make avoiding them next to impossible, but so that each dart only just missed the other. It would've been genius, if it weren't so barbaric._

 _The darts didn't show any sign of stopping; as they rose in a crescendo to a constant rattle, they stayed there. The Doctor reached the nearest hole, and studied it momentarily. It took about two seconds for each dart to fire out of the tube, presumably whilst the next was being reloaded. Two seconds wasn't a long time to work with, but it was certainly a start._

 _With his foot, he pulled the collection of items towards him – in particular, the packet of chewing gum. He tore it open, and popped the first pellet into his mouth. His jaw worked furiously, chomping up and down to chew the gum. At last, it was ready._

 _Taking it out of his mouth with his spare hand, he placed it just below the air hole, and then watched the regular flow of darts. Bam….bam…bam…bam…_

 _He sprung into action, slipping the chewing gum over the hole in the brief interim. With his thumb, he forced it into the position, with a few thumps as the darts hit the soft material._

 _A stray dart flew across the room and jabbed his hand viciously. The Doctor cried out for a second, before pulling the dart out and sucking away the poison. He drained his mouth of the noxious contents._

 _Slowly, he managed to work his way around the room, clogging up each of the air holes, one by one. Eventually, he plugged the last one, and the cell was silent again. He slumped against the wall in relief._

'Sir.'

The Commander looked up from the console, his eyes eagerly expectant. 'Well? Is he in the disposal area?'

'I'm afraid not, sir. It would appear that the tranquilisers have failed.'

'Failed? How?'

'He appears to have…blocked the air holes, sir.'

'With what?!'

'It would seem that he, er…' the guard loosened his collar, swallowing nervously 'had some items on his person. That allowed him to do so.'

'And you didn't remove them during the search?'

'Apparently not.'

'Well, then. It is obvious what must be done. If you are too incompetent to use a computer, it must be done by hand. Take a weapon each, set to stun. Make it look like an accident, at least!'

The two guards nodded their approval, before dismissing themselves from the bridge. They marched down the never-ending corridors together in perfect unison, each footstep exactly mirrored by the counterpart.

They rounded the corner and entered the cells.

The first guard pointed to the security console, as he stood over the Doctor's cell. With a hiss, the glass doors started to part, and the platform rose steadily.

In the cell, the Doctor was lying on the ground, without even a hint of life of him.

'One of the darts must've found their mark,' the guard retorted to his comrade. 'Shoot him to be sure.'

At these words, the Doctor's eyes flew open, and he rolled across the cell. The guard let off a shot, the electronic bubble cackling through the air and disintegrating upon hitting the metal.

The Doctor vaulted the last few feet onto the deck, dodging yet another blast. As he approached the console, the second guard fumbled with his blaster for moment. Before he could fire, the Doctor pulled the dart from behind his ear and jammed it into the guard's neck. He fell to the ground instantly, held only upright by the Doctor as a shield.

For the last few hours, the Doctor had been thinking over the situation. Carefully and precisely, he had recounted the events to himself, He managed to recreate the computer console from his memory, and work out the controls needed for his plan. Red lever to work the platform, green switch to open and shut the glass doors.

The first guard fired off a shot, missing the Doctor and his shield by a few inches. The wall beside him exploded in a fury of sparks, causing him to flinch.

'Wonderful toys…' the Doctor grumbled to himself, as he unholstered the man's weapon. Aiming it just to the side of the target, he squeezed the trigger. The artificial globule went soaring through the air, right across the room.

The guard leapt to the side to dodge the blast, falling into the cell – a fact the Doctor had been depending on. Letting the shield fall to the ground, the Doctor lowered the cell that now housed his enemy. With a flick of the wrist, he heard the glass doors hiss shut.

However, the guard reached his hand upwards, catching itself between the panes of glass. Noticing it, the Doctor tutted, before removing the hat and umbrella from the cabinet – the code to which he had instantly committed to memory on sight.

As he strode across the room, he jabbed at the man's outstretched hand. He yelped, and the hand shot back into the cell. The glass doors sealed shut.

The Doctor doffed his hat at the two guards, as he exited the room. The door closed behind him, and there was silence once more.

Mel crept down the corridor, carefully avoiding the floorboard she distinctly remembered creaking the other night. She didn't really have a reason to remain secret, but she'd prefer to keep quite all the same.

With as much trepidation as she could muster, she grabbed the handle to the library, and started to turn it.

'Alright?' Maisy said, sending a jolt up Mel's spine. She practically bit into the word; there was no chance of Mel missing the hint.

'I was just checking something…' Mel explained pathetically, pointing to the door.

'Killer always returns to the scene of the crime?' Maisy asked rhetorically, crossing her arms and striding over to Mel. 'Suspected you from the start.'

'Look, you've made a mistake!' Mel started, backing against the wall. 'I'm innocent.'

'You would say that,' Maisy snarled. 'Well? Go on, then. Let's hear the excuse.'

'I just had a feeling…' Mel started, stopping in her tracks. 'That there was something I missed!'

'Oh yeah? Like what?'

'I don't know! Just something!'

Maisy stopped herself, thinking about this. As she finished mentally chewing on the thought, she nodded in agreement. 'Alright. Let's have a look, shall we?'

As Mel sighed in relief, Maisy pulled two hairpins from her pocket and kneeled at the lock.

'Just give me a mo…' she said, bending one of the pins into a right angle in the middle, and crooked the other one at the tip. She inserted the two pins into the lock, and started to pick at the tumblers.

'You can pick a lock?' Mel asked, hoping to avoid spreading any more suspicion.

'Don't worry, you can't pick a lock shut.' Maisy replied. 'You can't get and lock it again without the key.'

Mel silently accepted the answer; she could remember reading somewhere that what Maisy was telling her was true.

'It's a classic locked room mystery, really,' Mel started, watching Maisy pick the lock. 'No way anyone could enter or leave, but the person was killed nonetheless.'

'Oh yeah?' Maisy muttered back, wholly disinterested.

'Mm. See, it can only ever be one of three solutions – the killer was never in the room, the killer in still in the room, or they found a way out.'

'Amazing…'

'The idea, is that you can work out how the crime was committed through logical deduction.'

'Well, get cracking, Holmes.'

The door clunked heavily. Maisy tucked the pins into her pocket, and pushed on the panel of the door. It swung open slowly, creaking all the while.

'Well,' she said 'let's have a look.'

The two women entered the library, Mel going in second and making sure to close the door behind them most of way – not enough that it would lock them in.

The sight took an appallingly long time to register for either of them; a couple of seconds, at least. But when they did see it, they could do little more than gape at the spectacle.

On the shelf, the books were arranged neatly and precisely, most likely in alphabetical order if anyone cared enough to check.

The pens had been placed back in the holder, as well as all of the mugs reformed and neatly refilled with the drops of tea left behind.

In the centre of the room, the desk and chairs were stood upright, perfectly arranged in a square.

The floorboards had been scrubbed of any trace of the blood; in fact, they looked as clean as they had been the day they were first fitted.

But most surprising, and perhaps most terrifying, was the fact that the corpse of Professor Oakley was absolutely nowhere to be seen.


	4. Chapter 3: The Secret Adversary

Chapter 3: The Secret Adversary

'Tell you what…' Maisy murmured, completely stymied. 'You were right. You definitely missed something.'

'Where could it be?' Mel asked nobody in particular, double-checking the area on the floor, just in case they had somehow lost the body.

'Maybe it fancied a bit of fresh air?' asked Maisy, only half joking. Discretely, she checked behind the door. 'Or wanted to stretch its legs for a while?'

'We have to tell the others.' Mel decided, heading towards the door.

'Doesn't make any sense. I mean, who could it've been? I know it wasn't me,' Maisy pointed to her chest 'and I can't see Arthur doing a job like this in a months of Sundays. You've been downstairs all night. Alice, though…' Maisy started to think 'Alice cleans for a living. Quick job like this, wouldn't be too hard for her.'

'But why?' Mel asked, stopping her from leaving. 'It just doesn't make sense.'

'Well, it must've been someone!' Maisy exclaimed. As the cry rang in Mel's ears, something else joined it.

'What's that?' she asked, craning her head to get a better listen.

'What's what?' Maisy answered tentatively, before Mel shushed her. 'I can't hear anything.'

'I think it's coming from upstairs…' Mel decided, heading for the door. 'A tapping. It's quiet…'

'There's only the loft upstairs,' Maisy informed her. 'And nobody ever goes up there.'

'Well, it looks like somebody is. Is there a ladder or something?' asked Mel, glancing up and down the corridor.

'Just over there.'

Maisy pointed down the hall to a corner, just by the stairs. In the ceiling above it, there was a square cut into the wood, a couple of feet long at either side.

In lieu of a stepladder, Maisy cupper her hands together and lifted Mel up to grab onto the hook. Between the two of them, they managed to open the hatch and grab onto the lowest rung of the ladder.

Precariously, they managed to avoid impaling either of them, or fall flat on their faces. The ladder clattered onto the floor.

Upon seeing the sheer blackness at the top, Mel shot a quick glance at Maisy, who pointed up the ladder in return. 'Go on, then,' Maisy nodded 'ladies first.'

Mel was about to protest, but soon realised the futility. Grabbing onto the first rungs, she heard the wood moan and wobble under even her slight frame. Nonetheless, it held. She made her way up the ladder, inching it on her way to the top – whether it was her fear of what they may find, or the ever-present worry of the ladder snapping and sending her tumbling to ground, she did not know.

Eventually, she was submerged in the darkness. With only the glow from the corridor illuminating her and her surroundings, she was cut off from the world of the living. The tapping was still audible, slightly more now.

'It's safe to come up,' she breathed down to Maisy.

'Okay, I'm on my way. Can you see anything?' she whispered in response.

'No, it's too dark.'

'There should be a few candles, just by the floor. See if you can't light them.'

Mel got to work on the matches, sending a burst of unsuccessful sparks on each strike. On the eighth attempt, it blew a sudden flame, singeing the tips of Mel's fingers a little. Using the light of the match, she found the first candle, blew off the dust and lit it.

By this point, Maisy had finished her climb of the ladder.

'According to Arthur,' she said, taking the candle 'this place hasn't been used since the Jericho brothers. Most of this stuff'll be hooky.'

The flames of the candles were much weaker than Mel was expecting; she thought it'd be like the films, where the heroes light a candle, and the whole tomb is consumed in a wave of light. But it wasn't like that. If she pointed it at a certain object, she could just about make out the writing on the various crates.

The attic was littered with towers of objects; they were piled as high as they could fit, increasing in height as the roof slanted to a peak.

If Mel could listen carefully, she could hear the muted pitter-patter of rain falling on the tiles, with the howling wind rustling through the gaps in the walls. There was a storm brewing, for certain.

There was a pile of crates, forming a wall between the duo and the strange tapping. Mel moved towards the crate, pressing her ear against the nearest one. A floorboard creaked underfoot, squealing at the pressure placed on it.

All of a sudden, the tapping stopped. Mel held her position for a brief pause, afraid to even to disrupt so much as a mite of dust. Eyes bulging, she looked at terror in Maisy.

Gently, Mel positioned herself around the corner, ready to meet the awaiting sight.

A makeshift desk had been arranged out of a few empty boxes. One of the candlesticks had been placed on the right hand side, casting elongated shadows about the place. In the centre of the 'desk', a typewriter had been position, with a pile of blank paper one side and a smaller pile of used sheets on the other. A single piece positioned in the typewriter, the top half filled with font.

'What is it?' hissed Maisy, following Mel around the corner.

'I'm not sure…' Mel replied, examining the site. 'Looks like a typewriter, or something. This must've been the tapping!'

Mel sat down at the desk, pulling the paper from the typewriter as a bell dinged. The light followed as Maisy did, presumably the candle casting over her.

'What is it?' Maisy asked, checking quickly around the crates.

'I think it's a story of some sort…' Mel answered, scanning over the page:

 _As the two crept through the loft, they felt the darkness pricking at the backs of their necks and sending shivers up their spines. Little did they know of what they were to find; they knew even less of the danger seeking them._

 _Mel glanced at the boxes, hoping to find her answer. It was to no avail, as her opponent remaining ahead._

 _At last, she stumbled upon the source of the curious sound, which had lured her to this place like a Siren's call. Hoping to avoid being discovered, she remained hidden, at all costs. However, the floorboards beneath her acted in betrayal, heralding her arrival._

 _The cunning adventurer froze on the spot, as the mysterious sound-_

Mel lowered the page to the surface, all the blood rushed away from her face.

'Well?' Maisy asked. 'Any good?'

'It's us…' Mel whispered, a great lump forming in her throat. 'They've written about us, discovering the typewriter.'

'Let me see,' Maisy insisted, putting the candle on the desk and snatching the paper away.

'The hatch…' Mel gulped 'That's the only way in or out of the attic, right?' She found herself flicking her eyes towards the small glow of refuge.

'Yeah?'

'And we didn't see anyone else when we came in. So the thing that really scares me isn't the fact that someone else managed to know exactly what we were doing and thinking just now, and that they were in this very room just a moment ago.'

'No?'

'No. It's the fact…that they're still here.

Maisy dropped the page in shock.

'We have to get out of here,' she decided sharply, grabbing the candle and wrapping her hand around Mel's arm. 'Come on!'

She tugged the other woman away from the desk, and through the brief tunnel of darkness formed by the crates. They practically slid onto the ladder, dropping down onto the ground below with a thud and moving out of the way. Behind them, Maisy dropped the candle to the ground, the ferrous handle slipping out of her grip. On its journey to the ground, the flame was extinguished, plunging the attic into darkness once more.

Mel backed herself against the wall, as Maisy grabbed onto the rungs of the ladder and shoved it back up through the hatch in a blaze of sudden adrenaline. When that was done, she collapsed against the wall, panting for breath.

The two of them barely made a sound for the next couple of minutes; aside from their frantic breathing and ragged gasps, there wasn't much to talk about.

Inwardly, Mel was already cursing herself. Over the course of her time with the Doctor, she'd had to face some sights. Things that'd haunt her in her nightmares until her dying days. And the one positive out of those experiences was learning to cope. Learning how to tackle a situation calmly and logically. Not let foolish emotions get the better of you.

She had learnt a few things from the Doctor; never judge on appearances; always hope for the best; never let tea go cold. But the most important was that there was always a way out. Always a solution, if you worked hard enough to find it. But at the first breath of a ghost story, she'd thrown those teachings away and fallen back on her instincts. Frankly, she was astounded she hadn't screamed.

'I dunno about you,' Maisy finally spoke up 'but I need a drink.

 _The Doctor strode down the corridor, letting his umbrella tap confidently against the surface with each step. One or two of the troops ran past him, presumably in the midst of some important mission, or something-or-other, as he didn't seem to register._

 _At last; something was going in his favour._

 _The TARDIS would most likely be under guard at the moment, at the very least; at most, it would be disposed of by this point. The Doctor, against his better judgment, let out a dark chuckle at the thought. He'd like to see them try._

 _So, that meant he'd require information before advancing any further. Going by the size and scale of the ship, he could access the database from any computer terminal._

 _Quietly, he backed himself against a bulkhead in the nearest wall, whistling nonchalantly. With one hand, he played with the yo-yo, watching it rise up and down, up and down. With the other hand, he tapped away at the keypad, trying different combinations of code._

 _It beeped cheerfully, and the door swished open. Putting the yo-yo into his pocket, the Doctor turned and entered the room._

 _Based on what he could see, it was a hydroponics bay. Suspended above large tanks of water, presumably being pumped full of vitamins and minerals perpetually, was an array of plants, their weeds reaching down into the water and sucking up the ingredients for life. A way of growing plant life without the need for large amounts of soil; quite a useful asset in space travel._

 _It was also home to a computer terminal, embedded in the farthest wall. The Doctor hopped over to it, and started to punch in the entry code._

 _Streams of information flowed past, vital information on the ship's history, current state and crew complement. It was a constant blur of text, rushing past almost too fast even for the Doctor's eyes._

 _'_ _That should be enough…' he mumbled, changing the setting. The information ground to a sudden halt; this particular section was on the rough schematics of the ship. Webs of corridors ran around the edges, with a couple of the lines forming rooms._

 _In the centre of the chart was a rectangle, easily taking up half of the ship on its own. Curiously enough, there did not appear to be any connecting doorways to the largest room; it was completely isolated._

 _'_ _What have we here…'_

 _The Doctor rapped away on the built-in keyboard, sending various designations and locations shooting to the screen in great flares. They worked their way around the ship, growing ever closer and closer to the main room. At last, it was next._

 _Suddenly, the screen flashed red, flickering away. The Doctor leapt back a pace, squinting his eyes. Amongst the blaring screen, the words 'SECURITY ALERT' appeared, themselves flashing._

 _'_ _Oh no…' the Doctor groaned, heading towards the door._

 _A klaxon began to ring, echoing up and down the corridors repeatedly. Ducking his head through the door, the Doctor saw a group of the guards approaching from both directions, cutting him off._

 _He headed back inside the hydroponics bay, sealing the door shut. With a well-placed strike of his elbow, the locking mechanism exploded into a shower of sparks._

 _Well, he'd either locked it shut or locked it open. Either way, it wasn't looking good for him. Nervously, he glanced around the room, the realisation just beginning to sink in…_

Mel swirled the translucent orange contents around in the glass, watching the tiny ripples appear in the liquid. After a moment of contemplation, she raised the glass to her lips and poured the whole lot into her mouth.

With great effort, she managed to swallow it. Although the whiskey burnt her throat, causing her to rasp a little, she kept it down.

'We'll have to tell them,' Maisy tutted quietly, pouring herself a third glass already. 'We can't keep them in the dark about this.'

'I know,' Mel scraped, downing a few mouthfuls of water to sooth her throat. Maisy found the sight quite amusing, considering the events of the night so far.

'Take it you're not a regular drinker, then?' she asked in jest, taking a swig of her own glass. 'My uncle used to be like that. Told everyone he was a heavy, then two halves of shandy and he'd be out for the count!'

As Maisy laughed to herself, Mel thoughtfully pushed the newly full glass away from herself with her index finger.

'Everything alright?' Alice asked, as she entered the kitchen. Her gaze fell upon the duo of glasses on the counter, and her mood all of a sudden became somewhat sullen.

'Yeah, yeah, we're alright,' Maisy swatted the question away like an insistent fly. 'But there's something I – we need to tell you. Both of you.' Maisy pointed to Arthur in the next room.

Alice's face fell a little glum. She nodded in acceptance, before escorting the two back into main room.

'Everything alright, ladies?' Arthur asked, as the trio entered unceremoniously from the kitchen. Upon noticing their funereal atmosphere, he immediately quietened up himself.

'Gone?!' Arthur barked, almost rising from his chair in shock. 'What the blazes do you mean, it's gone?!'

'Mel and me were in the library,' Maisy started 'and we managed to get in.'

'I thought it was locked?' Alice asked, her mouth slightly wavering.

'I, er…I picked the lock.' Maisy confessed. 'Don't worry, it's still safe. And everything was gone. Cleaned up, put back together. And the body was gone.'

Arthur stared at the fire in bemusement. 'I don't believe it,' he said at last 'Just doesn't seem possible.'

'No,' admitted Mel in agreement. 'The door was locked…who had the key?'

'It's over there, on the hook.' Arthur replied, pointing at the front door. 'Along with the others.'

Mel walked over towards the front door, keeping her eyes on the chain of keys changing from a hook. It was a metre and a half off of the ground, with around a dozen or so keys attached.

'So the question is who, it looks like,' Maisy said, taking care to look at Alice on the word 'who'.

'The keys were down here,' Alice started 'so they must've picked the lock.'

'Just like you, dear,' Arthur nodded at Maisy.

'Could someone have made a copy of the key?' Mel asked, turning around.

'No way,' Alice replied 'I keep the keys on my person at all time. Nobody ever has a chance to copy them.'

As the words left her mouth, she realised all too late the suspicion she had aroused. Her lips pursed.

'Yes, that's right…' Arthur purred, wheeling himself to face her. 'You'd be the only one that could open and shut the door.'

'But… but,' Alice stammered 'I was done here all night, with Arthur!'

'You…did slip off for a few minutes, every now and then.'

'To make you a cup of tea! Uncle Arthur, please, it wasn't me!'

'Well, it must've been someone.' Arthur finished, leaving his statement completely neutral and clear of any accusations. 'That much is clear. Melanie, is the door locked?'

There was a brief clunking as Mel tried the door handle. She nodded in response.

'There we are. We've got the killer locked out.'

'Or locked in.'

A brief chill hung in the air. Mel looked at the fire briefly; it definitely seemed to be dying down. The charred firewood was starting to pile up, the heat and glow growing weaker and weaker by the second.

'I can't stand it like this,' Maisy muttered, standing up and starting to pace around the room. 'Sitting around, cooped up like a turkey. The killer's going to strike again. I can feel it.'

'Don't talk like that,' Arthur chided her. 'It was most likely a one-off with Professor Oakley. If there's any sense to them, the killer'll be halfway to Newcastle by this point.'

The group hummed in affirmative.

'What was Professor Oakley's first name?' asked Mel after a moment of thought.

'Erm…' Arthur replied, tapping the arm of his wheelchair as he thought. 'I'm not sure. Sorry.'

'Wasn't it in the guest book?'

'No. He just signed it as "Professor Oakley" whenever he stayed here.'

'Didn't you think it was suspicious, not leaving a name?'

'As long as he paid his way, I couldn't care less.'

'Well, that's a load of help, isn't it?' Maisy sighed, dropping back into her chair, having completed her circuit of the lounge.

'I never thought I would need the information, just in case someone decided to pop him in my library!' Arthur exclaimed back, his face starting to turn a little red.

'So thanks to you getting your pound of flesh, we're missing a vital piece of evidence?'

Mel wanted to stop the argument, sooth them all back down, but somehow, found that she couldn't. Helpless to interfere, her eyes darted from left to right with each volleying barb and snarl.

'Maybe if you hadn't been playing detective and mucking about in the crime scene,' Arthur roared, the situation starting to get the better of him 'the killer wouldn't have been able to get away!'

Alice started to flare up 'Let's just get one thing clear. We all know who the killer is. It's as plain as the nose on your face!'

She pointed an accusatory finger at Alice. 'Who had the key to the room? Who has the most experience at mopping up messes? Who had the opportunity?'

'I didn't kill him!' Alice replied frantically, her voice still barely above a squeak. 'I didn't!'

'And that's exactly what a killer would say!' Maisy shouted. 'Nobody's going to say they're guilty until there's a bloke in blue standing over them!'

'Arthur,' Mel said quietly, sitting down beside him. Her pleas went unnoticed:

'In fact, I'm just amazed you haven't slaughtered each and every one of us by this point!'

'You're making a mistake!'

'And for some reason, I don't trust you!'

'Arthur!' Mel asked again, stressing it this time. He turned around, and hushed the others. 'In the loft, I saw something. It was a typewriter.'

'Oh, yes.' Arthur replied. 'I got that for a friend a few years ago – Nicky Harris, I think. Used to live here. Always talking about becoming a writer after the war ended, so I got him the typewriter as a birthday present.'

'Didn't he like it?'

'He never got it, I'm afraid. A few weeks before his birthday, he was killed in a road accident.' Arthur's face softened. 'I don't suppose I ever got round to selling it on. Why do you ask?'

'Someone was using it.'

'Oh? Who?'

'We didn't see. But they were typing…'

'Well, yes, that _is_ the usual activity with a typewriter.'

'No, they were typing what happening. What me and Maisy were doing just a moment before.'

'That's strange.'

'That they knew what we were doing?'

'No. I hadn't put any ribbons it yet. It shouldn't be working.'

'Well, it was.'

'Don't suppose you brought one of the pages back?'

'No, we…' Mel's cheeks tinged with a mild sense of embarrassment 'We ran downstairs.'

'We thought the writer was still in the room with us.' Maisy explained. 'Wanted to get clear before anything nasty happened.'

'I see. Perhaps you imagined it?'

'Imagined it?!'

'Well, the night has been a little tense. And the lack of sleep might have something to do with it…' Arthur answered gently, hoping to avoid insensitivity.

'Mel heard a tapping,' Maisy added. 'When we were in the library. It was the typewriter, the keys, that made the tapping. If she just imagined the typewriter, how do you explain that?'

'Rain dripping on to the roof, perhaps?'

'That just happened to stop when we came close to the typewriter?

'Possibly. Speaking of which…' Arthur said, checking the curtained window. 'The storm seems to be getting worse.'

'Yes,' concurred Alice. 'The window's certainly taking a battering.'

As they spoke, the wind continued to howl in its ravaging attempt to blow the house down. Its effortless comrade drenched what remained in oceans of rainwater, drowning the inhabitants of the little life that remained.

The pack of guards marched down the corridor, their shoulders forming an impenetrable barrier. They moved as a single, unstoppable entity, with the same intention.

Thanks to the software on the computer, an alert had been brought up the moment someone had tried to use an unauthorised computer. In response, the entire network was shut off, as per the protocol, and every spare troop was gathered together. The plan was to outnumber the fugitive, with the express order to shoot on sight in necessary.

After the various antics, the Commander did not care for any benefits of the interrogation.

'All troops,' he drawled into the microphone, relaxing in the safety of the bridge. 'Ensure that your head-cams are switched on. I want a live feed of the whole event. Makes filling out the reports so much easier.'

50 blank screens on the wall before sprang to life, each filled of the same event, but from a slightly different angle each time. The Commander let out a wry smile at the monochromes feeds, kicking his feet up onto the desk. Aside from him, the bridge was empty, providing him with the privacy of which he was so fond.

The squadron of troops made it to the hydroponics bay. When the Commander had heard of the inclusion, he had initially sneered at the prospect. A garden, of all things, on his ship? But, he had to admit, when the generator was occupied by the main task, the food supplies helped to satisfy the troops.

'We're ready, sir.' one of the feeds buzzed. The Commander grinned.

'On my mark,' he started, pressing a button on the console. The bulkheads on both sides of the corridor slammed down, sealing the arena shut. 'Get ready, lads.'

In each of the screens positioned over the guards' eyes, there was a brief flash of green. They'd all learnt what it meant in basic training; go.

There was a storm of action. Every single one of the rifles was raised into the air, positioned so the sights were perfectly aligned. The entrance to hydroponics slid open, and they stomped through the gap.

Every human that was witnessed by their visors was engulfed by an outline or either green or red; green for ally and red for target. All of the troops were graced by a green outline, naturally.

'Looking for me?' Upon hearing the voice, all of the troops spun, weapons aimed.

A red outline highlighted a man, quite small in height and stood next to the computer console. The fingers were all placed on the triggers, ready to flinch a mere centimetre and send a tempest of shots at the strange little man.

The man grinned mischievously, and tapped a single button with his ring finger. A burning static suddenly appeared on the visors, temporarily blinding them. They tried to rub their eyes; the pane of glass blocked their hands.

It cleared. Grumbling quietly, they all raised their weapons. In each visor, there was a single figure, marked in red. Each troop fired a single blast at that figure, feeling the warmth of victory inside as they collapsed.

What they didn't realise, however, was that half of the troops had just shot one of the other half.

'He's armed!' one of the survivors cried, dropping to the ground.

The pandemonium only grew from there. Some of the troops fired in defence, attacking the others. Within a matter of seconds, there was only one troop left standing. Winner takes all.

'You fools!' yelled the Commander from the bridge, watching the remaining soldier stumble around the darkened chamber. 'He's tricked you! Remove your visor!'

The last guard grabbed the helmet, and tugged it off of his head. He dropped it to the ground, letting it clatter against the harsh metal.

 _The Doctor grunted something in Draconian, fiddling with the wires. It had been decades since he had to work with such crude, archaic equipment such as this, and it certainly showed._

 _As he made connections between two of the wires, they sent a brief flash and bang. 'Not that one…' he muttered, trying another combination. Ah! Success! The bulkhead started to slide upwards, freeing him._

 _'_ _You! Stop!' someone shouted from just down the corridor. The remaining guard burst out of the doorway, toting the rifle proudly._

 _The Doctor ducked, stopping the bulkhead with a gap of two feet or so. Leaping across, he rolled underneath the gap. He pulled on the twine knotted around his finger as he did so; it disconnected the wires, slamming the bulkhead shut again._

 _Content with his work, he smiled, before starting down the corridor._

The Commander's eyes narrowed, his finger hovering over the button.

'Come on, come on…' he murmured under his breath, using the security feed as his fly on the wall. The little man, curious in every sense of the word, started his journey down the corridor.

The Commander licked his lips, and shoved his finger down on the button, in a brutal, certain action.

 _In the corridor, the first bulkhead started to fall. The Doctor glanced over his shoulder. Down the corridor, there was a horrendous slam, followed by another, and another, and another. He started to run, clasping the umbrella in one hand and gripping his hat in the other._

 _The slamming got closer and closer, starting to boom in his ears. Each shutting bulkhead made him flinch, as images streamed through his mind – making one wrong step, and the tons of metal crashing down on a brittle bone, snapping it in two; being trapped in one compartment, as the controller slowly drew all of the air from your lungs like venom from a wound._

 _He banished the images from his mind, opting to focus on the task at hand._

 _The bulkheads crept towards him, the threat of death and agony looming over him. In a momentary flash of inspiration, the Doctor saw something approaching. A small square, carved into the floor. It was a few bulkheads ahead…he had just enough time…_

 _Timing it as closely as he could, he kicked down with all his strength, denting the square and loosening it from the casing. As the bulkhead slammed, the Doctor dropped through the hole, vanishing from sight._

 _He fell into a dark room. Thanks to the total lack of sight, it could be any size of from a broom cupboard to a football stadium – he couldn't tell._

 _Upon falling, he squatted his legs, removing most of the impact. He had landed on a grille of some sort, going by the patterns in the metal._

 _Panting out a laboured breath, he removed his panama and fanned himself with it. The room was stuffy, jam-packed with roasting hot air. It was practically a solid wall of heat, hitting him in every part of his body at once._

 _Clicking the torch on, he scanned it up and down across the room. The wall opposite was around 40 metres away, curving into the roof and floors, forming a gigantic circle._

 _He turned his attention to the platform he was stood on. It was fairly unremarkable; a grille a few metres across and wide. To one side, a ladder led down to the next platform, with another one after that, presumably trailing all the way to the summit of the tunnel. One thing he didn't see, however, was a guardrail, running around the edges of the platform._

 _'_ _Most unsafe,' he remarked to himself._

 _The square above him sealed itself off again, cutting off the last few drops of light. Sighing quietly, the Doctor pulled out the book, and continued where he left off._

'I still think we should call the police,' Maisy decided, folding her arms across her torso. 'I'd feel safer with a Bow Street Runner here.'

'It's not safe to go outside!' insisted Arthur, for the umpteenth time. 'The weather is hardly helping things!'

'What does a bit of rain matter? If we stay in here, we're just sitting ducks!'

'Go outside, and you'll be ambushed, providing you don't get lost on the way,' Alice warned her. 'That place can be Hell at night.'

'We have to do something.'

'No. _You_ have to do something,' Arthur muttered. 'Acting brashly will do more damage than good, Maisy.'

'Alright. Let's just say the killer is the same person as the one using the typewriter. That means they have access to the house. That means that just locking the door isn't going to do any of us any good. That means we're just as safe outside as inside.'

'You're making assumptions.' Mel replied. 'We don't know any of that for sure.'

'What else can it be?'

'I don't know,' Mel admitted 'but that's the point. None of us know, not for certain! In the morning, we can go in the village and inform the police.'

'It'll be too late by then!'

Mel took a deep breath in through her nostrils, and released it from her mouth. The action succeeded in calming her back down enough. 'Look,' she said, thinking over each word carefully. 'What time is it now?'

'Er…quarter past ten.' Arthur replied, producing the watch from his pocket.

'There we are. If the killer was going to strike again, they would've done by now.'

'It's because we're in a group,' Maisy retorted. 'We outnumber them.'

'Then we'll stay in a group. We can take turns standing guard, okay?'

'And when it's the killers turn to stand guard?'

Mel pursed her lips. 'We've had enough of a chance to commit a second murder. When you and me were in the library or the loft, when Alice was making the tea. But none of us did. Which means that the killer isn't just waiting for an opportunity.'

'How d'you reckon that?'

'By thinking it through.' Mel replied, hoping to avoid the pretentious overtones. 'We might as well sleep, we're as safe as we'll ever be.'

'Well, I'm not catching any z's.' Maisy pouted, thrusting an outstretched index finger at Mel. 'I like my throat uncut, thank you very much.'

Mel stopped herself from shouting back. Creating hostility couldn't do any good at this point. She heard a sound, buried amongst the crackling of the fire, the pelting of the rain, the moaning wind. It was barely audible, like a single part played wrong in an orchestra; minimal, but noticeable.

'Melanie?' Arthur asked 'What's wrong?'

'Just thought I…' she started, before walking over to the window. 'The rain. It's hitting something.'

'Yes. The walls.'

'No, no, something different. Sounds like…fabric? Like when the rain hits a piece of film.'

She felt around the curtain, searching for any trace of dampness. 'The curtain's dry,' she announced. 'So it must be outside.'

'Must be, yes.' Arthur agreed. 'Maybe some sheets were left out in the sun, and Alice forgot to bring them in.'

'I didn't.' Alice mumbled, wringing her hands. 'I can definitely remember, I didn't.'

'There's that,' Mel reasoned 'and the fact that the sound wasn't there a moment ago.'

Arthur's eyes grew wide as he finally understood what she meant. Her grip tightened around the fold in the curtain, and she thrust it to one side, the reams of material flapping with the motion.

The blackness of the night greeted them, And framed in the centre of the window, with the rain being tossed around it and the wind gushing up the ends of its veil, was a figure swathed in black, watching them intently with the longing eyes of a predator, ready to consume its prey.


	5. Chapter 4: Death In The Clouds

Chapter 4: Death in the Clouds

Mel recoiled back, almost falling back onto the armchair. The figure didn't even so much as flinch, staring into the room.

'What the hell is that?!' Arthur shouted, leaning in a little to examine it closer. 'What's it doing?'

'Tenner says that's the killer,' said Maisy, as she walked towards the window.

As she approached, the figure shifted out of sight, vanishing into the abyss of the garden. Maisy pressed her face up against the glass, trying to get a better view of the specimen. It was for nothing; it had disappeared from sight completely.

'I think it's still out there.' Maisy squinted, cupping her hands around her eyes. 'I'm not sure, though.'

'Well, that's a start, isn't it?' Alice spluttered, bracing herself with her knees. 'Certainly wakes you up!'

'I'm going to get it.' Maisy declared, running towards the door. On her way, she stopped by the table, grabbing the revolver from the counter and cocking back the hammer.

'Maisy, stop!' Mel shouted, joining her. She placed her hand over the lock, blocking Maisy's attempts. 'You can't go after it! It could be dangerous!'

Maisy hesitated, the gun wavering in the air. Eventually, her finger escaped the trigger, as her thumb pressed the hammer back into place.

'This could be our only chance,' she replied, with surprising restraint. 'We can't just let it run by.'

Mel slowly wrapped her hand around Maisy's wrist, and pulled it down. She led her back to the sofa, and gently sat her down.

'Thank you, Melanie.' Arthur said. 'It's most likely too far away by now, anyway.'

'Yeah,' Maisy muttered bitterly 'I mean, everyone knows guns only work at a range of four feet!'

'That gun is a Webley Mark II,' Arthur lectured, the words flowing off of his tongue. 'The recoil alone would be enough to throw your aim off. The distance wouldn't help matters, neither would the dark. And finally, I doubt you've got much experience as a marksman.'

'He's right,' Alice agreed 'You'd never hit them.'

'It'd scare them off.'

'Fat load of good that'd do. They'd just come back in a few hours, and then they'd know we're armed.'

'They most likely already do.' Mel retorted. 'The person in the loft. They've been watching us close enough to write that, then they'll know about the gun.'

'Yeah…' Arthur replied, nodding. For a moment, he stared at the dwindling fire, his eyes hollow. The ashen pile in the burning flames started to fall about, whispering away into nothing.

'I didn't quite tell you the whole truth.' he confessed, his eyes boring into the fire. 'About the typewriter, and Nicky Harris.'

'I knew it!' Maisy proclaimed, her hands flying in the air. 'I bloody knew it!'

'Just give him a chance.' Alice sighed. 'Go on, uncle.'

'Thank you.' Arthur replied. He took a deep breath, and started his tale.

'It was 1914. War had just broken out. All the lads in the village signed up straight off the bat, wanting to do their bit for King and Country. Me and Nicky Harris signed up together, got sent out on the same day. I can still remember it…the singing of what looked like a thousand million men, all marching to their deaths.'

'Nicky was in the Flying Corps, when the planes started going up. December 12th, 1916. I don't think I'll ever forget that date. D'you know that after the first twelve months, me and Nicky were the only ones left of the Pease Pottage boys?'

'I don't think he was taking the war very well. Every night, I could hear him, shouting at the night sky, or trembling in his bed without a wink of sleep. First chance he got in that plane, he sent it straight down to the ground. They shipped what was left of him to the field hospital, and stitched him back together. Shipped home at the first opportunity, from what I heard.'

'Word travels fast in the trenches. One rumour turned into another and another. Before you could say 'boche', the word of Nicky's crash was the talk of the town. According to the troops, he'd deliberately crashed just to get out of the war, or to get a quick escape. Either way, it didn't matter. They still called it cowardice.'

'One of the chaps told his family about it, who got in touch with their friends in Pease Pottage. Two weeks after Nicky arrived back home, he threw himself off a bridge.'

Arthur leaned in for dramatic effect. 'I got sent home not a month later. 12th day of Christmas, I remember it was. You see, Nicky was my only friend left in the world. I loved him more than anything. And I didn't care the others would say. I just wanted to see home again – see him again. So I asked one of the lads to shoot me in the leg, not enough to kill me, or anything. Just enough to send me home. And of course, I'd picked the worst shot in the whole brigade. The doctors said…' Arthur scratched his cheek, pausing slightly. 'that there was nothing they could. Any attempt to remove the bullet would shred the few nerves left,'

With his spare hand, he subconsciously patted his chair. 'So I arrived back home. Well, Nicky's mum wasn't up to much physical labour, so I went to help her out. Sorting through his things, packing them away, you know? The last letter he received before his death was a blank envelope. Inside? A single white feather.'

There was a hushed tone in the room, hanging heavy off of Arthur's every word. The trio of women stared back with expectant eyes.

'It was his funeral that afternoon, and that was the end of it. I tossed the feather into that fire.' he finished, pointing at the fireplace in question.

Mel sat back in the chair, finally having a chance to think. She'd learnt about the White Feather movement back in her history lessons; when the First World War was going on, any soldiers that had been brought back home on leave or furlough had been sent a single white feather anonymously. To any in the know, it branded them as a coward, a craven to all members of society.

More often than not, it led them to suicide.

'I never found out who sent the feather.' Arthur continued, having spurred himself onwards with a well-timed sip of the drink. 'Of course, after a few months, I gave it up. It wouldn't bring Nicky back, and it wouldn't do anyone any favours to have it outed. So, I bought this house, and waited it out.'

'And the gun?' Maisy asked, placing it back on the table.

'If you care to check the chamber,' he replied 'you'll find that it has six magazines, and five rounds. I haven't done unloaded or fired that gun since Ypres.'

'So where's the sixth bullet?' Alice asked, realising just a moment too late, as she glanced once more at the chair.

'From that day, I learnt my lesson. That brain will always beat brawn. That you should look before you leap. Because you never know where you might land.'

'I've found him.' the guard smirked, inherently pleased with himself. 'The secondary ventilation shafts.'

'Yes, I've got him here.' the Commander replied, lazily tapping a button on the counter. With a beep, a line of text flashed onto the screen: SECURITY LOCK – ENGAGED.

'That should keep him busy. Now…what shall we do with our guest?'

'The engines _are_ due for a wash,' the guard replied, with a macabre twinkle in his eye. 'The heat has to be vented out soon.'

'Yes, gets quite…hot, doesn't?' the Commander asked, clearly on the same wavelength. '500 degrees Celsius, unless I'm very much mistaken.'

'That's right.'

'Good. Can do nasty things to an engine, that much heat.'

'Does even worse things to people.'

'Yes…alright. Open all entry shafts, prepare the coolants. Let's see if we can't blast him out of there.'

 _The Doctor snapped the book shut, having turned the final page. Grimacing slightly, he tossed it into his pocket, and stood up groggily. The temperature had been slowly building over the last hour or so, making him increasingly drowsy._

 _Crouching down, he peered over the edge of the balcony. There didn't seem to be so much as a blemish against the flawless metal of the tunnel, but logic dictated that there be must be more than one maintenance hatch in the place._

 _His search was in vain. Despite looking as far as the torch would reach, he couldn't find another exit. Which meant two things: One. This ship wasn't exactly going to win the Oolon Colluphid award for Starship Safety. Two. He was cornered._

 _Ah. Not good._

 _Knowing the people around here, they'll have a couple of long-range missiles aimed at the hatch, ready to detonate should he decide to poke his head out and have a look._

 _There was another possibility…just maybe…_

 _He shone the torch down the end of the tunnel. The circle of light was incredibly faint, but just about made it. So that's where he was. A cooling duct._

 _Given the amount of corridors he'd been running up and down, this had to be a pretty huge ship. Which meant bigger engines. Which meant more heat to be shifted away._

 _After a few misfires, the manufacturers had fitted cooling ducts onto the ships, which would extract the heat and force it out into space, whilst the engines were cooled down enough to function. A simple enough theory, as it were._

 _Unless, of course, you happened to find yourself stuck in a cooling duct. Not only did you risk being blown out into space, but you'd get roasted on the way._

 _The Doctor started to gather up his things, stuffing the various bits and bobs into his pockets, leaving the torch on the platform next to him._

 _At one end of the tunnel, around a hundred metres away, was a giant door that made up the entire circular wall of the cylinder. Like a vault, it clamped into the wall of the tunnel, forming a perfectly air-tight seal._

 _On the other end was a solid metal wall, the same colour and dullness as the others. Leading into this end was half a dozen or so tubes, each one a metre or so across – presumably, these led from each engines, pumping out the heat. At a rough estimation, this was four times the distance away._

 _That was his way out – if he was right._

 _As quietly and gently as he could, the Doctor started to scale down the ladder, his feet clanging with every step. His mouth grew dry with each movement, no doubt the heat starting to affect him. This was still a fridge compared with what was to come._

 _As he leapt down the remaining yard to the ground, he started to walk, eventually being drawn into the dip at the centre of the tunnel. The beads of sweat started to emanate from just above his brow, prickling at his flesh like bee stings._

 _The end of the tunnel grew nearer and nearer, as the glow of the torch became stronger all the while. With each step, the Doctor's breath slowly diminished, until it was little more than a hushed whisper, sounding quietly with every laborious movement._

 _At last, he reached the end of the tunnel. All six of the tubes towered over him, rumbling ominously to themselves. A ladder was embedded in the walls inside each of them, for engineers, mechanics, and pesky little saboteurs like himself._

 _Fanning himself with the hat, he took a moment to rest, trying fruitlessly to catch his breath back. There was a significant lack of lighting inside the engine tube; understandable, given how nobody was supposed to be inside it. The Doctor gathered himself together, tossed the hat back onto his head, and started to climb._

'Are we ready yet?' snapped the Commander, his vexation already starting to reveal itself. He didn't like being bored, especially not when there was people to be viciously killed.

'Nearly, sir.' the guard replied, noting to himself that he just happened to speed up a little. 'The engine's just moving into position.'

'He'll be getting away…' the Commander taunted, flicking his thumb nonchalantly. 'You don't want to risk him getting to an escape pod, do you?'

The blood started to drain from the guard's face. 'No, no, sir.' he stammered back, before returning to the console.

A thin smile cracked onto the Commander's face. Power, he often mused to himself, could be as vital to a ship's wellbeing as the forcefield wrapped around the hull or the air supply streaming around the system. He made a conscious effort to terrorise his crew, lest they forget their place and step out of line.

The computer before him chimed thrice.

'It's…it's ready, sir.' the guard mumbled maladroitly. 'Shall I…shall I activate it?'

The Commander nodded swiftly. 'And let's try and actually do the job for once, shall we?'

 _He'd only been climbing for a few minutes, and already the metal underneath his fingers was starting to reach scalding point. Every now and then, he'd hiss in brief flashes of pain, but forced himself to go onwards; this was his only hope of survival._

 _The tube was ever-so-slightly slanted, presumably directing the heat in the desired direction. This made took a sliver of the effort out, as it wasn't completely vertical; however, the heat more than made up for it._

 _Jamming his elbows into the red-hot sides, the Doctor on his hands, hoping to cool them down. If –_ when _he made it out of here, he'd have to stop by the sickbay if he wanted to keep his flesh._

 _Gaining his breath back, the Doctor groaned and restarted the work._

All throughout the engine room, the pipes were gargling and the motors were thumping like a timpani in an orchestra.

The Commander had made a specific choice when selecting his crew; they all be weapons-trained and ready for combat at the drop of a hat. Like all ill-conceived stratagems, the negatives out-weighed the positives.

It was simple enough to mastermind an attack, on the plus side. All the Commander would have to do is sound the alarm, and he'd have twice the amount of fighters of anywhere else in the fleet.

However, in case of a defeat, such as the already infamous 'Hydroponics' incident, it meant he was running a skeleton crew.

In order to stop that saying becoming literal, he had resignedly ordered what was left of his crew to sleep off the damage, saving only those who survived intact for shift.

Every corridor hummed with loneliness; the rooms all remained completely motionless. Throughout the entire ship, not so much as a datachip moved out of place.

The Commander moved his finger towards the 'go' button, taking a precautionary glance at the guard. Upon seeing the look, the guard stood up as straight as he could, thrusting his chest out and chin up. Nobody liked to disappoint the Commander.

The engines churned merrily, their symphony of labour repeating on an endless loop. The duet of the valve's creaking and cooling duct's drone sounded in harmony, beneath the staccato _beep-beep-beep_ of the alarm.

The sheer pressure of 500 degrees' worth of heat being forced through a gap emitted a shrill whistle from the machinery, accompanied by a clanging from deep within the metal belly of the ship.

 _The Doctor thumped his fist against the door, despite knowing exactly how much good it would do; none. It was passcode locked, presumably thanks to the increased security alert on the ship. And unless he managed to get the door open pretty lively, he was about to become the first ever dish of Poached Doctor._

 _Frantically, he thumbed in as many different combinations as he could muster, his fingers working in a magnificent blur. Each attempt rewarded him with a plain 'thunk'._

 _The hatch above him started to growl, shuddering with the oncoming rush of heat. The Doctor started to tap the side of the tunnel nervously, searching around himself desperately for a solution._

 _Eureka. Inspiration flashed into his mind, and he was almost giddy with excitement. He rummaged around in his pocket, pulling out the items and dropping them down the shaft. They clattered against the walls, followed promptly by a_ thum _._

 _He found it. The torch. Quickly, he unscrewed the top and threw it over his shoulder. It tumbled down the tube, joining the pile underneath._

 _The Doctor snapped the two wires running around the inside of the torch, and pulled them loose from the casing. Gingerly, he pressed them against the keypad for the door. There were two things on which he was relying: the powerfulness of batteries from Geltas 96, which have been said to replace nuclear generators on some planets; and quite frankly, the shoddiness of the ship he had found himself on._

 _Thousands of volts ran through the pentuple-reinforced wires and into the keypad. The Doctor's hands juddered as he barely coped with the wires._

 _The first set of hatches snapped open, and the drain of heat poured down the tube. The Doctor did his best to ignore, stamp the thought out of existence._

 _With a weary gasp, the lights on the keypad faded away, the clasp on the door releasing. It started to rise slowly._

 _The Doctor cried out in relief at first, before the rush of optimism vanished. Unless the door starting moving much quicker, this would all be for naught._

 _With an increasingly loud series of clicks, the hatches above him slid open, the heat making its way closer and closer towards him._

 _Grunting, the Doctor squatted down, gripping the bottom of the door with his hands and started to haul it upwards. His knuckles blanched from the strain, but it was working._

 _A gap had finally formed underneath the door – was it enough? A cursory glance at the hatches told the Doctor that he really didn't have a choice. He dropped as low as he could go, and flew through the hatch._

'And we're…clear.' the guard said, tracing over the pattern of the heat with his index finger. 'The heat is being sent through the system now.'

The Commander, for the first time this month, gave him a look of satisfaction. 'Good. Well done.' he tossed over a rifle. 'Now finish the job.'

'Sir?'

'You've seen what he's capable of. Give him an inch and he'll take a mile. This isn't over until he's inside out. Understood?'

The guard nodded fervently, before dashing off of the bridge, rifle in hand.

As soon as the bulkhead slid shut again, the Commander turned to the computer, cracking his knuckles.

'Now, then…' he drawled, tapping a chain of commands into the keyboard. 'Let's have some fun.'

The stream of heat raced down the funnel, propelled along with a series of jets, pushing the heat further and further away from the engines.

The ball of heat gathered at the base of the tunnels, and pushed along the tunnel, running up the walls and licking the sleek metal walls.

With a grind, the hatch at the end opened, admitting the heat into space through a carefully-controlled airlock. The vortex passed through, exhausting itself into space.

At the base of the tunnel, just underneath a network of maintenance scaffolding, a small novel rocked, its pages flapping in the wind. The heat caused the pages to curl and blacken, before turning to a pile of ash.

 _The Mystery of the Yellow Room_ was no more.

 _The Doctor gasped for breath, almost unable to move from his current position. Every part of him was shivering, from a nasty combination of sudden chill and unpleasant shock._

 _The corridor was at the same temperature it had always been, a cool 5 degrees. But when you've just been a hair's breadth from being boiled alive, it was colder than ice._

 _Feeling the goose-pimples flare up all across his skin, the Doctor turned his hand over and examined the fingers briefly. The metal had scalded them, causing the skin to redden and swell. It certainly wasn't a pleasant sight, but it could still be much, much worse._

 _Like he was discovering his legs for the first time, he staggered to his feet, almost falling over as soon as he was vertical – well, close enough._

 _Using the wall to prop himself up, he started the slow journey to sickbay._

'I think it's watching us.'

Maisy was sat on the edge of her seat, perfectly erect and coiled. Whilst the others were beginning to slouch, almost nodding off in the lull, she was ready to dive into action at a moment's notice. All the while, she was staring at the window, just on the off chance their assailant made a return visit.

'I sincerely doubt it,' Arthur yawned back. It was approaching eleven; just about the time he'd normally be thinking about bed. 'We've not had a sign of him for the best part of hour. Most likely he'll be hiding away somewhere.'

'Or he's waiting for us to slip up. Fall into his trap.'

Alice stared at her incredulously. 'You're being paranoid, Maisy.'

'And that's a bad thing at a time like this?'

'It's _always_ a bad thing.'

Mel entered the living room, a trio of steaming mugs in hand. Carefully, she lowered them onto the coffee table, before handing them to each person.

'Milk and sugar,' she said, passing the first mug to Alice; 'Two sugars and no milk,' for Arthur and 'Black with milk' for herself. She sat back down in the armchair, taking a sip of the drink.

'Are you quite sure you wouldn't like a cup of tea, Maisy, dear?' Arthur asked, resting his on the table beside him. 'The kettle's only just boiled, there's still time.'

'I'm good, thanks.' Maisy replied, through a mouthful of whiskey.

Mel blew gently on the surface of the tea, sending a pillar of steam wafting into the air. Ripples swam through the drink, bouncing off of the rim.

'You wouldn't have lasted two minutes in the war.' Arthur muttered, digging his pipe out of his pocket. 'For every hour of combat, there was a week of waiting. Sitting in your bunker, hearing the shells drop one by one, wondering if the next casualty was to be you.'

'Good thing I'm not in a war, then.' Maisy retorted, depositing the empty glass onto the table. 'Wasn't sitting about knitting, though. I was doing my bit. Me and the rest of the girls from the party signed up as VADs.'

The name took a little longer for Mel to retrieve from her eidetic memory. VADs – or 'Voluntary Aid Detachments' – were nurses from the First World War, ordinary women who volunteered, as the name would suggest, to serve in the field hospitals, in foreign fields.

'The party?' Alice asked, between swigs of tea.

'WSPU.'

Mel watched the mug of tea slip out of Arthur's grasp and fall to the ground, smashing into a thousand pieces. He stared dead ahead at Maisy, the smashed teacup not even registering.

'Uncle?' Alice asked tentatively. 'Are you alright?'

'WSPU?' he croaked, somehow managing to avoid blinking the whole time. 'Did I hear that right?'

'Yeah?' Maisy replied uncertainly. 'There a problem?'

For a few, pulsing moments, Arthur didn't reply. However, he finally managed the words: 'WSPU,' leaving a beat in between each initial. 'It was you. You're the one that sent the feathers.'

There was a collective sense of confusion, highlighted by Maisy's 'What?!'

'The WSPU,' Arthur explained steadily 'or, as you might know them, the Suffragettes. Oh, they were supposed to be anonymous, but we all knew. Truth be told, it was the wicked grin you always held. The smug sense of knowing you've won.'

'Arthur, what are you-'

'As it turns out, petty vandalism and abusing innocent people wasn't enough for you lot, was it? Because you just couldn't resist hurting one more person.'

'Don't be ridiculous! How could I-'

'If you hadn't sent those feathers, then this would never have happened. Nicky would still be here. I'd still have my legs. And…'

Bitter tears stung at his eyes. 'And this wouldn't have happened.' he choked out.

'Arthur, please listen to me,' Maisy said, dropping her voice way down. 'During the way, I was abroad. And whenever I got leave, I'd be back home in Manchester. How could I have sent the feather?'

'Not you personally,' he snarled 'but you were there in spirit. You wouldn't care, would you? How many feathers did you sent out? How many people did you decide to hurt, all for nothing?!'

'Nothing?!' Maisy screeched, shooting out of her chair. 'For centuries, women have been trampled on in this country, but if we want even the most basic of rights, it's "for nothing?"'

'Look me in the eye.' Arthur shot at her 'and tell me that everything you did, everyone you hurt, was in the name of your cause. In the best interests of the cause. Because, quite frankly, I bet you can't.'

Maisy swallowed, and glared down at Arthur. Mel anticipated, with baited breath, her response, whilst Alice did the same.

Before she could reply, Maisy's eyes flickered upwards, catching the glint in the glass of the window. Mel followed her gaze.

The figure had returned.

Without a moment's hesitation, Maisy ran towards the door, the pistol practically flying into her hands en route. Before Mel could stop her again, she was out of the door and charging across the garden.

'Maisy!' Mel cried out, as she gave chase into the howling rain.

Within a second of being outside, she was already drenched. The pouring rain matted down her curls, and caused the fabric to cling to her skin.

Maisy was still barely visible, already halfway across the garden. Throwing her hair out of her eyes, Mel turned towards her and ran after the woman, feet sloshing through puddles of mud and rainwater as she did.

At the end of the garden, the figure was gliding across the grass, not leaving so much as a footprint behind it. Maisy cocked back the hammer, and aimed the gun. With a squeeze of the trigger, there was a brilliant flash of light alongside a horrendous bang.

Mel wasn't expecting the gunshot; her ears were ringing and eyes recoiling from the flash. The bullet soared across the garden, and hit the wrought iron gate a few metres away from the figure.

'Damn!' spat Maisy, as she readied the gun for a second attempt.

Beyond the gates of the garden was rolling hills, marked by the odd tree or minor landmark. After that, it was open countryside for miles on end. This, alongside dozens of other disjointed, rambling thoughts, snapped through Mel's mind, as her legs heaved away beneath her.

The second shot flashed just as brightly as the first; only this time, the bullet went flying through the air, way above the target.

Mel watched Maisy leap over the gate, vaulting neatly with her spare hand. As she herself reached it a moment later, she had to heave it open, the creaking hinges groaning through the rain.

As she rounded the corner to follow the figure, Maisy toppled over, slipping in the sodden grass. She rolled on her side, until she slammed to a halt. Thankfully, the turmoil didn't cause a misfire.

She aimed the gun for a third time, using her free hand to steady it. As the figure slowly shrank into the background, she pulled the trigger.

It missed. Mel almost sighed in relief at the thought of one less slaughter tonight.

However, the figure noticed. It turned around, the shroud billowing at the action. Slowly, it started to make its way towards Maisy.

'Finally…' she grunted, pulling back the hammer. The gun was aimed exactly at the centre of the figure's chest.

'Maisy, don't!' Mel shouted over the rain, cupping her hands around her mouth. For a brief moment, Maisy considered the alternative. Run back inside the house, help prevent bloodshed, maybe even catch the assailant alive, make them stand trial and pay for what he's done.

And then she pulled the trigger.

The shot made impact with the figure. It hit the cloak, sending shockwaves throughout the fabric. But it still kept coming, closer and closer towards Maisy.

Agape, Maisy raised the gun once more and prepared it. The figure was only a few feet away…

She fired the gun. It clicked numbly, and there was no flash. Maisy squealed at the gun, pulling the trigger a few more times, just in case it would work. But each time brought nothing but a click.

The figure reached out its hand, wrapped completely in more of the black fabric. It gained on Maisy, mere inches away from consuming her within its grasp.

Suddenly, Maisy was thrown to the side, rolling through the mud. In confusion, she struck out, sending a well-placed punch into the stomach of the attacker.

It was met with a feeble whimper, as the grasp was released.

'Oh my god…' Maisy murmured, as she saw the attacker. 'Mel! Are you alright?'

'Fine…' Mel wheezed back, clutching her stomach. 'The, the person?'

Maisy's head darted back and forth, searching the landscape. There was no sign of the figure.

'They've gone.' she tutted in defeat. 'How is that possible? There's nowhere for them to hide…'

Mel raised herself to her feet, joining in the search. 'Maisy?' she asked, after a few moments. 'The village, Pease Pottage? Shouldn't it just be over there?'

'Should be, yeah.'

'Then why can't we see it?'

Maisy turned, quickly checking around them. Beyond the nearby hills, it quickly formed into the blackness of night.

'Maybe it's too far away?' she shrugged. Mel wanted to agree with her, pass it off as nothing more than the cloak of darkness. But she knew otherwise, and she had no choice in remembering.

The other night, when she was struggling to sleep, she sat on the windowsill, watching the owls hoot and soar, the moon hover above the land, the stars flicker serenely. She had definitely seen the buildings of Pease Pottage, and she had most definitely seen the lights.

But now, it was barely visible – if it was actually there at all, that is.

There was another flash of light; for a split second, Mel thought Maisy had reloaded the gun. But she quickly deduced that it had, in fact, come from above them.

She tilted her head backwards, watching the deep blue sky crackle with lightning. More and more tendrils flashed in the clouds, cracking the nightline in a web of brilliant white and blue flashes. They spread across the sky like wildfire, leaping from point to point. Soon enough, the whole sky was alight with the blazing inferno, as far as the eye could see.


	6. Chapter 5: Three Blind Mice

Chapter 5: Three Blind Mice

'Can we get in now, please?' Maisy chattered, hugging herself to preserve the warmth.

Mel nodded back, taking her gaze from the sky.

'That can't be natural,' Mel said, pointing at the cracks of light. 'Not that much lightning.'

'Does it matter?!'

'I suppose not, no. Let's go.'

The two women traipsed through the mud. By this point, they were soaked to the bone, streams of water dripping out of their hair and off of their clothes.

The front door was still open, the oblong of brilliant light shining through. In the centre of the light was a silhouette, entirely in black.

'What the blazes did you think you were doing?!' it shouted, only just audible over the wind. 'You'll catch your death out here!'

'I had an idea. Sorry.' Maisy shrugged, starting to shiver from the cold.

Arthur edged out of the doorway, getting a better look at the pair.

'You're soaked through,' he tutted, before turning inside the house. 'Alice! Fetch some towels!'

Mel and Maisy both stepped over the threshold, the latter shutting the door behind them.

'Well?' Arthur asked, locking the door. 'Did you get him?'

Maisy glanced at the revolver in her hands. Trembling with chill, she placed it upon the counter. 'No. I missed.'

A slightly smug look filled Arthur's face. 'What did I tell you? Those guns were hell for aiming.'

'Well, we tried.'

'Damn fool's errand. Alice! Towels, if you please!'

There was no reply. Grumbling, Arthur spun his chair around and rolled towards the chairs.

Alice was lying in the chair, slouching back. Her arms dangling limply over the edge, and her legs were stretched out towards the fire, like a plant leaning towards the sun.

The cup of tea, still steaming, was on the arm beside her.

'Alice! Come on, shake a leg!' Arthur yelled, before rolling himself towards her. As soon as he was within prodding distance, he sent a precisely-aimed jab at her arm. Once. Twice.

She didn't move.

'…Alice?'

Maisy walked over towards the chair, as if scared to disturb Alice. In the chair, her head was lolling forward, like a deep sleep. Gently, Maisy reached out her index and middle fingers, and positioned them just on the neck.

For a few tentative seconds, she waited, expecting the giveaway throb to sound.

It never did.

Glumly, she looked at Arthur. 'I'm…I'm sorry.'

 _The Doctor held his hands in the dermal regenerator, letting the warm red light wash over them._

 _Compared to the roasting inside of the tunnel and chilled corridors, this was a pleasant enough compromise, he thought._

 _The dermal regenerator was a sufficiently familiar device; about the size and shape of a microwave, only without the door and deadly radiation. If the skin on one's hands were damaged in any way, all you had to do was place them inside the regenerator and a small army of micro-bots got to work repairing the flesh._

 _The Doctor, constantly on edge of someone walking in on him, kept peering over his shoulder. The sickbay was a small room, which meant that there was one way in and the same way out._

 _The light flicked off, beeping cheerfully. Smiling at the first sign of good fortune all day, the Doctor removed his hands and brushed the excess skin off._

 _'_ _Now, then…' he said, finishing with his hands. 'Back to business.'_

 _He strode around the room, taking in the surroundings. The room was jam-packed full of equipment, most of which could be used to do some serious damage, if one wished to do so. There was a computer terminal in the far wall, but that wouldn't do him any good; if he so much as hit the 'enter' button, it'd set off more bells than Seville Cathedral. Not a good idea._

 _There was a few stasis pods in the walls, for terminal patients and extreme cases. Push come to shove, he could stick some guards in there, put them on 'freeze'. Which, unless they sent less than four, wasn't exactly the best case scenario._

 _Suddenly, the ship juddered to a halt. The Doctor froze on the spot, feeling for any other movements. Up to this point, the deck had been trembling, vibrating with the motion of the engines. But now, it was deadly still._

 _He walked over to the cabinet at the other side, pulling out a few vials of viscous, blue liquid. Balancing them in the palm of his hand, he pulled out a table and placed in the test-tube holder._

 _The fluid inside rippled gently, miniature waves lapping up against the glass walls._

 _'_ _Interesting…' he murmured, dropping down to eye-level with the glass. 'Most interesting…'_

Mel was sat in the chair, fixed to the spot. All the blood had drained out of her face, leaving it paled and stony.

In the corner, Arthur was sat in his chair, his head fallen into his hands. He was gasping, as if each deep breath was no more than a shallow pant. Shock was emanating from him, showing like a lighthouse.

The cup and saucer clinked as Maisy picked them up and carried them towards the kitchen. They had all gone stone cold, the drink inside untouched and unwanted.

As she approached the kitchen, she stopped, and met Arthur first. 'Are you alright?' she asked, resting a sympathetic hand on his shoulder.

He looked up, eyes swollen with bitter tears. 'Just go.' he muttered, returning mournfully to his solace.

Maisy considered replying, but opted to give it a pass. She started to leave, taking the cups into the kitchen.

Arthur jolted up suddenly, sniffing the air around him. 'Come here a second,' he requested, brandishing with his finger. Maisy stared in doubt, before returning to him.

With a quick swipe, he grabbed Alice's mug, and brought it up to his nostrils.

'Funny smell?' Maisy asked, squatting down.

'Yes…' Arthur murmured back. 'Smells like…almonds.'

Mel's ears pricked up, as did her curiosity. She walked across the room, joining the other two. 'Almonds?'

'I can't smell nothing.' Maisy shook her head. 'You're probably imagining it.'

'Almonds…' Mel echoed, looking in the cup. 'It's not almonds!' she cried 'Cyanide!'

'Cyanide!' Maisy repeated. 'That's what killed Alice?'

'Most probably, yes! I can remember reading about it,' Mel explained, taking the cup from Arthur. 'Cyanide smells like almonds, but only certain people can actually smell it. Maybe…two out of five people? It's genetic.' she turned to Arthur: 'Are you a blood relation of Alice?'

'Of course, yes.'

'So she'd have been able to smell it as well.'

'So?'

'So…you're about to take a drink of tea, when you realise that it smells of almonds. Would you drink it?'

'Well, no. I'd drain it down the sink, make a fresh cup.'

'Exactly. So why did Alice drink it?'

'I think I'm beginning to see…'

'But it still leaves the question,' Arthur spoke up 'of who put the poison in the mug. Who made the tea?'

'I did-' Mel started, before cutting herself off. _Just_ too late… 'I didn't poison her!'

'Alright, Poirot,' Maisy started, crossing her arms. 'Let's hear it.'

Mel stammered, desperately trying to come up with an answer. At last, she found one: 'The smell!' she declared, pointing at the cup. 'I was the one that pointed out what the smell of almonds meant. If I hadn't, then you wouldn't have known it was poison. I would've gotten away with it!'

Maisy thought about this, and then nodded. 'Okay. Okay, I can buy that. There's still a killer about.'

'Suppose it was an accident?' Arthur asked, fixated on the mug. 'The poison was meant for someone else?'

'No,' Mel replied. 'Alice had both milk and sugar in her tea. You couldn't have poisoned just one without risking giving it to someone else as well.'

'And there's no chance of lacing the mug with the cyanide, I suppose?'

'No, I don't think so.' Mel replied, tapping her arm. 'Again, there was no way to be sure who would get which mug.'

'Well, she must've been poisoned somehow.' Maisy announced, leaning against the wall. 'She didn't breathe it in, did she?'

'Was there any point when one of us was left alone with the cup of tea? They could've slipped it in then.'

'…No. You two ran out, and then I went to the door to keep an eye on you.' Arthur answered. Upon hearing the tone of his voice, he held up his hands in defence. 'I didn't kill her! Why would I want to?'

'He's right,' Mel agreed. 'Same as me. He could've ignored the smell and gotten away with it.'

'That just leaves…' Arthur started, glancing up at Maisy. She glared back at him; he finished: '…the chap outside in the cloak.'

'Yeah…' Maisy growled quietly in return.

'Whoever it was,' Mel interrupted 'we'll need to preserve the cup. For evidence.'

With her right hand, she went to grab onto the mug. However, her hand just swatted through thin air. She tried again a few times, before looking down. The counter was just there, as it had been before.

But the mug was gone.

'What the…' she exclaimed, looking around herself. The mug hadn't fallen to the ground, or been misplaced onto another surface. It had completely gone.

'No…' choked Arthur. 'No!'

Furiously, he wheeled himself towards the armchair, releasing his grip and letting the chair roll freely the last few feet. As soon as he reached it, he felt around for Alice.

'They can't have…' he cried, pulling himself to see around the chair. 'Not my Alice!'

The flow of tears started afresh, streaming in fat rolls down his cheeks, as he clung in desperate to the now empty armchair.

 _One by one, the Doctor lowered the test-tubes back into the cabinet. They clinked against the holders, and once more in unison as he rolled the tray back._

 _'_ _Most interesting…' he echoed, possibly for the tenth time now. The ship had definitely come to a stop – the regular churn of the engines and pulsing of the deck told him that much. But it was still moving. Not much, mind, but still moving nonetheless._

 _Which meant one of a few things. Either it was being towed by a larger ship of some sort; it was in orbit around a planet; it had landed on said planet in a body of water, and was floating about._

 _He paused for a second. Breaking entry would have made much more noise and mayhem that he had just experienced. That ruled out the possibility of a landing. And the odds of another ship being able to tow this one so soon after dropping out of warp was next to none – in fact, it was none, full stop._

 _So that left the ship in orbit. Presumably, they've reached their destination, and are waiting for the next stage of the mission._

 _Given by the proportion of armed soldiers to scientists and civilians he'd seen thus far, it didn't exactly seem the very figure of diplomacy. Whatever the next stage would be, it couldn't be good._

 _The Doctor paced up and down for a few seconds, mulling over his plan of action. At present, he'd mostly been left alone. The others had had more than enough time to track him down and attack him, even just trap him in the sickbay. But they hadn't._

 _Fingers crossed, they didn't know he was still alive. That still gave him the element of surprise, he thought to himself. The alternative being that they knew he made it out of the duct, but didn't want to interfere any more than they already had – good news by anyone's reckoning._

 _He reached a decision. Reaching out a finger, he pressed the button connected to the bulkhead, and heard the doorway hiss as it rose._

 _The corridor outside was empty; in fact, he would even go so far as to call it deserted. Outside the sickbay, the corridor reached in both directions, left and right, as well as straight ahead. The passage leading dead ahead continued for miles, most likely running through the core of the ship; meanwhile, the two routes to the side eventually curved and ran parallel to the main corridor. All roads lead ahead, it would appear._

 _The Doctor pointed out his finger, licked it, and held it up to test the wind. Naturally, the perfect air conditioning meant there was a total lack of breeze for him to examine. Wiping his finger clean and tucking it inside his pocket, he chose the corridor to the left and started to walk._

'I think we've made it sir,' the guard stated, trying (and failing) to keep the arrogance out of his voice. 'Perfect arrival, if I may say so.'

'You may not,' snapped the Commander, making a minute adjustment to the helm controls. 'You very nearly brought us too close. They'd have been able to see us!'

'It's a primitive planet, sir,' the guard replied, clipping every word of any condescension. 'They haven't even made it out into space yet.'

'That doesn't mean they're completely ignorant of the universe.' the Commander rebuked, wagging a finger. 'In case you've forgotten the tribes of Langlit? _You_ assured me that we were perfectly safe, nowhere near view from the surface. We arrived on the planet, and most of the men were ambushed and taken hostage like that!' He clicked his fingers in the air.

'That was a one-off incident, sir. My track record in the interim has more than made up for it.'

'I believe I hold the right to decide that, thank you.'

'Yes, sir.'

'And don't you forget it. If there's one thing I won't stand for on my ship, it's insubordination.'

'Yes, sir.'

'And incompetency.'

'Yes, sir.'

'And lax standards.'

'Yes, sir.'

'Not to mention the appalling state of the tech around here.'

'Is that all, sir?'

The Commander rose, pulling himself up to his full height. By a few inches, he was taller than the guard – not much, but still enough to use to his advantage.

'Unless you want to get off this ship via the airlock,' the Commander drawled, rolling each and every word over his tongue 'you might want to save your breath. After that debacle in hydroponics, you're lucky you'll still got all your teeth!'

The guard winced slightly at the last remark. Brutality, according to the official documents, would not be tolerated in any shape, way or form aboard their ships. Of course, this far out from HQ, there didn't happen to be any official documents lying about…

'Yes, sir.'

She just stood agape. Frankly, that was all she could do. Professor Oakley's body, whilst that was somewhat baffling, with the motives unclear, it was still within the realm of plausibility. The _why_ was unclear, not the _how_.

But just now…not only had all of three of them been in the room, they'd been talking to one another the whole time. Even if they wanted to remove all evidence of the murder, it just wasn't possible.

Of course, there was another version. Someone else was in the house with them, who had taken the body. Perhaps their accomplice was one of the three, hiding away the teacup?

The thought sent a jolt of chill down Mel's spine, despite the fire before her and towel swaddling her. She didn't know which was worse: the thought of the killer being so close to them, leaving with such vulnerability; or the thought that one of these two, Maisy and Arthur, whom she considered to be her comrades, her friends, was in league with the killer.

And not only that, but they were swift enough, secretive enough to move a body and wipe away evidence without making so much as a single creak. If they were capable of that, then there was no telling what they'd be able to achieve when the savage bloodlust filled their veins.

'She…' Arthur stammered, his mouth as dry as a bone 'She can't be…they can't have!'

'Maybe we should get some rest,' Maisy offered, resting a hand on his shoulder. 'Sleep on it?'

Arthur shook his torso, throwing her hand off. 'I can't sleep! Not when…when…'

'Arthur,' Mel said, looking up. 'I'll have to agree with Maisy over this. We're sleep-deprived as it is.'

Upon hearing the ginger's words, Arthur nodded in curt agreement slowly. 'Yes, alright.'

He started to wheel himself across the room, inching towards his bedroom door. Maisy moved to stand behind him, grabbing onto the back of the chair.

'I _think_ I can manage, thank you.' he snapped, turning his head as far as it would go. Maisy released her grip on the handles as though they were red-hot, and Arthur vanished through the bedroom door.

'I'll go and see if he needs a hand.' Maisy sighed, followed after him.

A moment after the door shut, Maisy heard a bellowing 'Get out!' sound through the door, as Maisy quickly fled the bedroom.

'I think he's alright,' she sniffed, crossing her arms. 'So? What's for us?'

'I'm not sure.' Mel replied 'Apart from sleep, not too much we can do.'

'No,' sighed Maisy. 'Unless you fancy having a poke around?'

'Sorry?'

'Well, Arthur's going to be in there all night. Might as well take the chance and have a look, eh, ma'am?'

Mel thought about it for a second, before declining. 'No, we can't. We can't do that to Arthur.'

In a single bound, Maisy crossed the room, standing a scant few inches from Mel. 'Suppose there's evidence, somewhere in the house. Suppose the killer's going to move it by morning. Then what? They'll have gotten away, all because you were too afraid to get your hands dirty.'

Mel frowned. 'Where do we start?'

'Alice's room.' Maisy answered, practically running up the stairs. 'That's where any evidence is most likely to be.'

'If you're sure.'

Maisy darted up the flight of stairs, her feet lightly tapping on every plank of wood on the way, as she hopped from one foot to the next.

The ladder, leading up to the darkened loft, was still there, just as still as it had been before. Maisy almost ran into it, but she grabbed onto the pole at the last second, swinging around it and heading off in the next direction.

Mel passed it a moment later, pausing just by the ladder. Subconsciously, she pulled herself closer to the ladder, listening closely.

Further down the corridor, Maisy slowed, eventually coming to a halt. She spun around, glaring at Mel.

'What is it?' she asked, putting her hands on her hips. 'What now?'

'I can hear it.' Mel intoned, pointing up into the loft.

Maisy shook her head. 'I can't hear anything.'

'The sound, from before. The typewriter.'

Maisy's eyes widened, and she headed towards the stairs. 'Back in a sec!' she called, almost falling down the stairs.

Indeed, a second, she returned, revolver in hand. 'Okay, here's the plan,' she declared, heart pounding. 'You go up, spook whoever it is. I'll wait down here with the gun, and trap them if they try to escape.'

'It isn't loaded.'

'They don't know that!'

Mel felt the whirlpool of doubt swirling around inside her, threatening to overflow and spill out into the conversation.

'Sounds like a plan.' she agreed hesitantly, before grabbing onto the ladder.

The sparks of fear flickered inside, amongst the wafting sea of worry. Slowly, she tried to quell her fear, extinguishing the last few remnants of oncoming terror.

Rung by rung, she climbed up the ladder, sinking into the darkness.

On the edge of gleaming white, there was a ripple.

Like a pebble being dropped into a pool of water, the shape itself morphed and trembled, until it was barely recognisable.

The sheet of black surrounding it ate away at what remained at the white, filling it in with more darkness and the occasional fleck of white.

The white was no more, save for a minuscule outline that ran around the edge. Even if it was pressed up against your eyes, you'd struggle to see it.

The guard released the wall, standing up straight. The chronot wave had a nasty habit of turning his stomach, something to do with the photons.

Or at least, that's what the Medic had told him. Really, it was just a load of nonsense.

Every time he brought up the suggestion to the Commander, it was always countered with the fact that without the chronot wave, the cloaking device couldn't operate and they'd be a target.

It really was a wonderful thing, the cloaking device; it allowed them to constantly have the upper hand over any adversary, as well as travel free from attack.

The worst of the nausea seemed to have passed. Fumbling forward, he soon evolved into a dignified stride, marching as regularly as he always did.

 _As the guard walked past a turning in the corridor, the Doctor leapt back, barely staying out of sight. The moment the guard was out of earshot, he let out a relieved sigh. He couldn't keep this cloak and dagger nonsense up for much longer._

 _The corridors didn't have much in the way of alcoves; unless you were as thin as a sheet of paper, you didn't have much chance of avoiding detection._

 _One half of him was tempted to find the TARDIS and leave, as soon as possible. The other half quickly squashed it out of existence, stamping on it with the heel of its metaphorical shoe._

 _He needed a plan. At least that was optimistic – plans were definitely his strong suit._

 _First things first, he needed information. The shape and size of the ship gave it away as a gunship, something that never ended well. If it had just arrived in orbit around a planet, then it was pretty likely an attack was imminent._

 _If the ship they were sending was of this calibre, then it certainly wasn't for the means of defence. His conscience was therefore restored. No matter the circumstances, he simply couldn't abide such a horror._

 _So his plan was to cripple the ship – or at the very least, disarm it enough so that it wasn't a threat. But how?_

 _The fact that he didn't have the foggiest didn't exactly help him any. At the moment, he was Theseus in the labyrinth, wandering around in ever increasing circles. Slowly, he was creeping towards the minotaur, inching closer to his fate._

 _He scoffed at himself. If there was one thing he didn't have time for, it was such foolish ramblings. The ship had been designed for functionality, not aesthetics. The layout shouldn't be too hard to work out._

 _Fate, he reminded himself ruefully, was not something to be easily tempted._

Wincing once or twice, Mel picked up the candlestick and went to light it again.

'Can you see anything?' Maisy whispered from beneath. 'Is he there?'

'Someone's writing at the typewriter.' Mel replied, dropping onto the floor and lowering her head through the hatch. 'I'm going to see who it is.'

'Good luck.' Maisy bit her lip.

Mel returned to her feet, picking the candle off of the crate to the side.

The attic was the exact same as it was before, with the same clumps of dust gathered over the same lettering on the same crates, towering in the same positions.

Just behind one pile was the clacking of metal pin upon metal board, softened slightly by the paper in between. It was a constant rapping, echoing through the cramped chamber and ringing in her ears.

Mel pressed herself up against the tower at the end, careful not to send the whole lot toppling over and revealing her position. She took a deep breath, calming herself down. Beat by beat, her pulse slowed right down, until it was steady and smooth.

Grabbing the corner of the wooden box, she tugged once, pulling herself around to catch the writer off guard.

Stood in front of the typewriter, causing the tapping to sound through the house and lure her to his place…

…was no-one.


	7. Chapter 6: Endless Night

Chapter 6: Endless Night

Mel watched in horror as the keys moved themselves up and down, an invisible hand typing at them and sliding the paper back and forth nonstop.

Dazed, she moved to stand in front of the typewriter, to ensure that it wasn't a trick of the light, or an illusion of some sort.

Before her, sure as day, was the typewriter, still clicking, still tapping.

'Are they up there?' Maisy shouted, brandishing the weapon before her.

'No.' Mel replied, not taking her eyes off of the bizarre spectacle. 'Maisy, I think you better see this.'

'No, I'm supposed to be keeping guard! In case they come back?!' Maisy sighed in exasperation. 'Remember?'

'Maisy,' Mel started 'You'll really want to see this.'

From through the hatch, Maisy huffed and puffed, climbing up the ladder. A moment later, she joined Mel in the attic.

'Well? What is it?'

Mel pointed forwards, focusing intently on the typewriter. The candles were at the same height they had been before, despite probable hours of burning in the elapsed time.

'It's working on its own,' Mel explained slowly, walking towards the impromptu desk. 'How?'

With a sharp tug, Mel pulled the paper from the holder, smearing one letter down the page. The typewriter continued to work, the letters clicking at nothingness, until they dwindled into stopping.

'What does it say?' Maisy asked, as she shone the candle around the room, searching every nook and cranny.

 _As their friend retired to his final sleep, Maisy and Mel ventured into the loft. They returned to their positions, awaiting the assailant lurking in the dark._

 _Mel approached the phantom writer, preparing herself for the sight that awaited. It didn't notice her arrival; it simply focused on the task at hand._

 _With a handful of deep breaths, Mel braced herself, before leaping at the adversary._

 _There was nobody there. Stymied, Mel stood in the empty chamber, her mouth agape with confusion. She could barely comprehend the sight – by all rights, it simply shouldn't exist._

 _Mel reached forward, plucking the paper from the-_

The paper was lowered to the table, crinkling alongside the others.

'I'm not making the same mistake,' Mel muttered, scooping up the other sheets as well. A quick flick through them told her that it was one hundred and ten sheets of paper in total, give or take a few. 'I want to read these, see what the killer's been up to.'

'Yeah, yeah, good idea,' Maisy replied, finishing her rounds of the attic. 'There's no sign of the killer.'

'No reason there would be.' Mel solemnly concurred. 'Could be anywhere, really.'

'Well? Anything else you want to check out whilst we're up here?'

'Not really, no.'

'Right we are, then.'

Maisy turned to leave the attic. However, the motion sent a drip of hot wax flying from the candle and landing on her finger. Yelping, she clutched her hand, throwing the candle through the air.

She stumbled backwards, knocking over a pile of crates. As the sound of wood splintering boomed over her distressed cries, Mel turned around, a tinge of amusement hitting her.

'Are you alright?' she laughed, reaching out a hand and helping Maisy to her feet.

'Nothing a hot bath wouldn't cure.' Maisy smiled in return. 'I think I landed on something soft…'

'Yes, rotten wood.'

Maisy wiped herself down, and turned to inspect the crash zone. The boxes piled on top had managed to survive the journey, but the one at the bottom was obliterated. She threw some of the bits of wood out to the side, clearing her view.

'Here,' she hissed to Mel, pointing at the goods 'Look at this.'

The box had been filled with all sorts of bits and pieces, gathered over the years. A few framed photographs, in starch sepia; letters, yellowed and curling; a few bits of jewellery scavenged from over the years like a dragon's hoard.

In particular interested was a small metal tin, roughly about the same size as a cigarillo case. Mel placed the sheets of paper onto the floor, and shifted away some of the smaller items covering the tin, freeing it and removing it from the box.

'Something good?' Maisy asked, examining it.

The tin pinged and its hinges creaked as Mel popped it open. Inside was a small collection, about half a dozen or thereabouts, of metal cylinders, rounded at one end and flat at the other.

Bullets.

Maisy's eyes widened as she took in the sight, and started to beam in joy. 'You know what this means,' she said, taking the tin from Mel. 'Spare ammo! We're back in the game!'

She snapped the tin shut, shoving it into her pocket.

'I'll reload the pistol when we're back in the light. Makes it a bit easier.'

'Yeah…' Mel replied quietly, dropping the objects onto the floor. 'Don't you think this is a bit…odd?'

'Odd?'

'Well, what are the odds of us finding the bullets for that gun, amongst all this? Out of all of the boxes in here, why this one in particular?'

'Could just be coincidence?'

'Hmm.'

Mel went to pick up the papers – but they weren't there. She felt around the ground where the light didn't reach, in case she'd knocked them to the side by accident.

'Trouble?'

'The story…it's gone.'

'Gone? What d'you mean, gone?'

'I put it down here just a moment ago, and now it's vanished!'

Maisy crouched down, shining the candle around. 'You're right. Maybe it was a gust?'

'I didn't feel anything.'

'Yeah, didn't hear the papers either.' Maisy agreed in defeat. 'Still, though. Where did they go?'

'Not much we can do. I've got the distinct feeling that somebody around here doesn't want us to have them.'

 _The Doctor poked his head around the corner, checking left and right in quick succession. After determined that the coast was clear, he walked out, deliberately sticking as close to the wall as possible._

 _'_ _Now, then,' he murmured, pointing at a doorway just before him. 'According to the maps, this should be the observation deck.'_

 _He mentally summed up the map in his head, before making a choice._ Click _. The door slid open._

 _Suddenly, a guard rounded the corner, rifle brandished, sights set on the Doctor. At the last second, he jumped through the door, barely avoiding capture for the seventh time that hour._

 _The area he found himself in was a single, round room, with smooth, blank walls. No controls rested upon the walls, aside from a single button next to the door._

 _The Doctor thumped the button, prompting the doors to hiss shut. It was quite possible that he'd just entered a rather elaborate broom cupboard. Muffled by the door, he heard the guard's footsteps pound against the thin deck, coming closer and closer…_

 _They stopped, just outside the door. The Doctor froze in reaction, too scared to breathe. The seconds ticked by, and the guard eventually moved on. The Doctor sighed in relief, as the receding sound of the footsteps faded in the corridor._

 _Suddenly, the whole room jolted, a motor beneath whirring. His innards turned a little, but he was coping._

 _Above him, the roof of the lift stopped a few seconds beforehand, sliding apart like the slices of a lemon. The platform the Doctor was stood on carried on rising, pushing him through the hole._

 _The chamber was a large, glass dome, like a seven foot tall snow globe. As soon as the Doctor finished his journey, he stepped off of the platform, remaining on the metal floor of the globe._

 _So. This must be observation, then._

 _The ship sprawled out before him, an elegant dagger of porcelain white. The hull was dotted with lights, presumably all different rooms and sections glinting out into space. The ship continued to the rear, coming to a halt and shutting off, juxtaposing against the smooth curve of the bow – where the warp engines would go. To either side, the side curved to the bottom, making the peak of the ship into a large arc of metal._

 _Small turrets were positioned across the body of the ship, jutting out at odd and irregular angles. A few marks and burns blemished the hull, battle scars that yet to be healed._

 _And finally, there was two rows of squares, running down both sides of the ship in parallel lines. The Doctor couldn't accurately work out their size from here, but he could hazard a guess at their nature; escape pods._

Maisy pulled back the hammer, freeing the chamber from its position. With a single, sharp movement, she snapped the barrel forward, releasing the empty shells and flinging them into the air. She then loaded in the six bullets from the tin, checked they fitted properly, and closed it again.

'We're good to go,' she called up to Mel, tucking the gun into her pocket. It seemed a little unbalanced, risking falling out at any second, but it seemed to be holding.

Mel stuck her foot through the hatchway to the loft, letting it dangle for a while, before it found the rung. She started to scale the ladder once more, leaping onto the ground when finished.

'I wouldn't mind a change of clothes,' Mel told her, brushing the flecks of dust from her dress. 'First the rain, then the mud, and now this!'

'I know how you feel,' Maisy replied 'Come on. Let's call it a night, eh? I'm cream-crackered.'

Maisy stifled a yawn, before heading into her room. Stumbling a little from the fatigue, she almost walked head-on into the doorframe, stopping herself just in time.

Amused by the sight, Mel chuckled silently to herself, before leaving for her own room.

She had tossed and turned all night.

First, Mel gathered all the available candles in the house, placing them at strategic points around her room – the window sill, the dresser, by the door, etc. This way, if anyone was to enter her room in the night, she'd be able to see who they were at a single glance.

Next, she rummaged around the kitchen, until she found her prize. The container of salt. An old trick she could remember her grandmother teaching her; apply salt to a lit candle, and it would make it last for longer. Not much, mind you, but it was still better than nothing.

Grinding her index finger and thumb together, she sprinkled a gathering of salt into each candle, watching them collect in the small dip at the top of the candle. She struck a few matches, eventually succeeding and lighting the first candle. Using the successful attempt, she worked away around the room, until it was completely aglow.

Reluctantly, she neglected to find a weapon. It could give her the advantage in a fight, but it still do no good. No matter who she came up against, she knew in her heart she just wouldn't be able to bring herself to use it. Besides, her chances of winning wouldn't have been improved by that much.

Satisfied, she got into bed, staring at the ceiling. The light poked through her eyelids, constantly keeping her awake. Throwing herself from one position to the next, she tried and failed to make herself comfortable. All the while, sleep eluded her.

She was vulnerable. That was one thought that kept bouncing around her mind, constantly taunting her and goading her out. If she was asleep, then she couldn't defend herself.

But, she could then mentally rebuke, even if she was in a full suit of armour, she wouldn't stand a chance. At least this way, she wouldn't start to go mad from sleep deprivation.

The light splashed onto the walls flickered and shifted with every movement of the candles, distracting her every single second.

She briefly considered if she was the only having sleeping problems at the moment. Maisy appeared to coping comparatively well with the ordeal; she wolfed down the meal at an impressive speed, seemed rather gauche when discussing the matter, and almost excited to be holding the gun and hunting down the killer, like it was a big game.

Arthur, on the other hand, had suffered enough for the day. First his friend and then his niece being killed, before all traces of their very existence swept away like dust in the wind. Provided he had managed to get himself into bed alright, then he should be fast.

Which just left. Over the course of her travels with the Doctor, she'd almost started to develop a sort of professional detachment; whilst she had felt an initial pang of sorrow for the fates of Pex, Murray and Professor Lasky, her travels had soon whisked her away from their remains and with them any feelings. It did make the job easier, she had to admit, when she could just follow the Doctor and avoid complications.

But it was the lasting effects that frightened her. Whilst at first, she'd still felt the sorrow, it had almost completely faded away by this point, to the extent where if they disappeared soon enough, she didn't even remember their names, let alone their fate.

What would happen when her travels ended, she thought. When she was back home in Pease Pottage, surrounded by her friends and family. When one of them got hurt, or upset, or, god forbid, killed. Would she feel that familiar gutpunch of shock, and the nagging ache of loss that haunted you for days, even weeks after? Or would she simply shrug it off, as she always did?

Sometimes, she wondered between her and the Doctor, who was the real alien.

Her thoughts suddenly turned more optimistic. There was a reason that feeling was so familiar – she'd felt it today. When they'd come across Oakley's body, jaded by the wave of disgust; when they'd found Alice's lifeless body in the chair, alongside the cruel sucking of diminishing hope. There was no doubt that no matter what she said, did or thought, she was human.

With the quilt wrapped up tight around her, combined with the various candles around her, she was soon swelteringly hot. She pushed it away, minding not to catch it in a stray candle and sending the whole place up in flames.

The sudden rush of cold air cooled her down quickly. After lying in the chill, she sat up in the bed, padding towards the window. The square of pure black was still in place, revealing nothing about the world outside.

Cupping her hands around her eyes, Mel pressed her head against the glass, feeling the iced condensation dripping against her skin.

Through the glass, she could see the vague outline of Pease Pottage, barely legible against the bland, monotonous green-brown of the landscape. There was definitely something off about the image, something she couldn't help but notice as wrong.

In a way, it reminded her of the 'spot the difference' puzzles she used to do, or that round on _The Krypton Factor_ she could always win. Except this time, the detail was just too minute, too subtle. She just couldn't see it.

There was one way, she reminded herself. She could investigate the village right now.

Her mind toyed with the possibility, weighing it up slowly. She wasn't exactly missing out on any sleep if she were to leave – the adrenaline still streaming around her system told her that much.

Not to mention the fact that she wasn't any safer inside the house than out. The killer – or at least, their accomplice – was inside or could easily get inside the house, and move around unnoticed. Cooping herself in her room all night was just a matter of locale, nothing more.

And the weather seemed to be easing off a degree, calming down somewhat. It was hardly a day in Marbella, but it was better than the typhoon it had been a few hours earlier.

But what if something happened to her whilst she was outside? Suppose the killer followed her and took their chance?

She reasoned pensively that over the last couple of days, she'd come to know the area quite well, something aided in no small measure by her eidetic memory and variation in routes. In fact, she even wagered hypothetically that she could find her way back to house with her eyes closed, if needs be.

If there was anything inside the village or the surrounding, quite possibly the very key to this whole mystery, then Mel had a duty to find it. A duty to Oakley, a duty to Alice…a duty to the Doctor.

There was a few things he'd always tried to teach her, in case the worst should happen – history is always being written, no matter the tense. Life should always be cherished, not squandered. Never eat pears.

And the most important was that there was always something to be discovered. Always one last square to be ticked, one shadow to shine a torch into.

That settled it. Mel extinguished the candles with a puff of breath, saving them for later. It was only half a mile or so to the village either way, so she wouldn't be any longer than three quarters of an hour, an hour at most. Maisy and Arthur most likely wouldn't notice she'd been gone.

Maisy and Arthur. With a sting of realisation, Mel picked up her notepad and pencil, and quickly scrawled down a message:

GONE INVESTIGATING SOMETHING OUTSIDE. IF NOT BACK BY

Mel checked the pocket watch, getting the time.

HALF PAST TWO A.M., THEN SEND HELP. MEL.

She placed the note onto her pillow, pinning it down with a pebble she found on a shelf. There. Her work was complete.

Five minutes later, Mel was gently shutting the front door, hearing it creak and groan, but eventually click shut. The chain of keys jangled as they were lowered into her pocket, forming a rough lump in one side.

Mel had a sneaking suspicion that the grey overcoat had previously belonged to Alice – albeit, it was a little too small, but it was most likely a hand-me-down. For her, however, it fit almost perfectly.

She had brought a candle out with her, but the gusts of wind soon finished it off. Fortunately, there was a lantern in the kitchen, coating in yards of dust but still functional. Inwardly, she quite reminded herself of Florence Nightingale, at the battlefields of Scutari.

The entire journey was done almost blind, the light only revealing a small patch of grass in front of her at a time; she almost walked straight in a tree three times.

Part of the journey involved traversing up a hill then down it again, otherwise you'd have to go through the fields. She took a short rest at the top of the hill, catching her breath. The nigh-on-addiction to aerobics had certainly helped, but even an Olympian would struggle to keep cool with this.

She perched against a weathered tree, sodden from the downpour and on the brink of falling over. Through the entwined branches, leaves and twigs, she could see the stars, fighting their way through the clouds just to reach terra firma.

 _In the observation deck, the Doctor dropped into a sitting position, crossing his legs. From this angle, all he could see was stars, million upon millions upon millions, filling the sky like an impossibly large Aboriginal painting, an incalculable network of dots._

 _He'd come to recognise all of the stars by position and name entirely by memory after his exile on Earth. Every night, he'd stand guard duty over the planet, watching for any passing ships that felt the fleeting fancy to stage a quick invasion then back home for supper._

 _Liz had been greatly amused by the idea, a stargazing spaceman, so, for their first and only Christmas together, she bought him a watcher's guide to the stars. He'd laughed gratefully at the gift, and put it in the TARDIS library, ready to read with a fresh mug of Andorian tea._

 _It was yet to be opened._

Mel huddled herself within the coat, avoiding the drip of rain threatening to sneak down her collar, all the while entranced by the sky above her.

How many people had seen the stars, she wondered in a brief moment of contemplation. How many people had glanced through the window one night, or roamed, lost at sea and desperate for hope, or simply gazed in wonderment at the sights before her eyes. Most likely, she reasoned, that everyone in history capable of sight had seen the stars, had thought the childish explanations of youth, learnt their true nature as life progressed and came to appreciation their constant reassurance in the darkest of nights. It was a common factor amongst infinite dividers; that everyone knew the stars.

Scientifically, of course, she knew that stars were simply no more than balls of hot gas, shooting out light every which way but loose, a perpetual risk of losing their form and devouring everything within range. And yet, they were idolised, worshipped, glorified.

 _Stars were essential to life, the Doctor remembered. At first, when the Gallifreyan Academy had told him of the beautiful orb of Kasterborous' true nature, he'd thought it all ridiculous; a volatile, dangerous, deadly force of nature being the source of such life and creation. Whilst systems were devoured and turned into dust, new ones would be created in their place._

 _The most extreme version of 'breaking a few eggs to make an omelette', really._

Mel laughed quietly, feeling the smile reach both corners of her mouth. The Doctor, despite his numerous and considerable credentials, would be first in line to chide her for ignoring the majestic beauty and focusing on the scientific nature.

She missed it. It was a silly thing, really, given how it had only been a few days. But when you spent close to every waking moment around someone, their presence becomes even more noticeable when absent. It was like a body part going numb, or a sense being cut off.

He'd know what to do. Knowing him, all it'd take would be a quick sniff around the airing cupboard, and he'd tell you the who, what, where, when and why in a second flat, before knocking it off as a cheap magic trick and soliloquising about the nature of tealeaves and how they were the secret to life.

The thought widened her smile even further. When she got back to the Doctor, she'd have to tell him everything about the murders. He always took such a glee in the unusual that it bordered on unsettling at times.

Then again, he'd most read the news article about it all in an archive, decades in the future.

 _The Doctor craned his neck, checking the view from every possible angle. All around him the same view of stars, with a significantly larger one to the side – presumably the sun at the centre of this system, filtered through the specialist glass to avoid dazzling him._

 _Inch by inch, the sun moved out of view, as the ship continued its travel in orbit._

 _The bow of the ship tilted into position, facing towards the destination. Expectantly, the Doctor pressed up against the glass, watching the planet slowly and tantalisingly reveal itself._

 _Blotches of green and blue shifted into sight, with a few wisps of white joining it later. More and more of the planet materialized, until it started to become recognizable._

 _The Doctor gaped in sheer horror._

Mel took a deep breath, then pushed herself away from the tree. She had to keep going, she told herself. Didn't have any time to dilly-dally.

One foot after the next, she trudged down the hill, almost sliding and falling a few times, but generally handling it alright. The village crept closer and closer, the silent houses and buildings beckoning to her.

She made her way into the village, the houses all coloured in various shades of grey and white in the moonlight rays, instead of the bright tones it was otherwise.

The feeble yellow glow passed over the nearest cottage – in particular, the window in the centre of the wall facing Mel. It was a single pane of glass, presumably tinted to become translucent – it simply made everything inside look grey and lifeless.

Come to think of it, the entire cottage was a nasty shade of grey; the walls, the roof, the house. Mel frowned. She recognised this cottage, definitely; Mr Parsons lived here, in 53 years' time.

With a flash of the lantern, Mel scrutinized the house. The number plate – 47 – was screwed the wall, but the lettering was completely absent from the wood. It had been carved into as a decoration, but the plaque was blank.

As was the street sign. And the signpost. And the plaque next to the statue.

The whole village was blank.

With a sudden wave of nausea, Mel stumbled further into the village, checking and double-checking every surface.

It was like a badly-done rendition, a facsimile of some sort.

 _Earth. It was Earth._

 _He recognised the shapes of the continents and distinct hues of the oceans instantly, alarm bells ringing in his mind. Of course it'd be Earth – where else?_

 _Backing away the wall, he started to gather together all the scraps of information in his mind, slotting them all together into a rough pattern, like three different jigsaws mixed together and just about making sense._

 _That malfunction in the TARDIS – it must have been that he had only moved in space, not time. At this very moment, this ghastly warship was headed towards 20_ _th_ _Century Earth. A battle of David and Goliath proportions if ever there had been one._

 _He'd gotten everything he needed from the deck by this point. All that was left to do was work his way to the bridge and see what spanners were available to toss over his shoulder and into the work._

 _The hatch failed to activate. The Doctor waved his hands around, checking if it was motion-activated (it wasn't); he jumped up and down a few times on the spot to see if it was jammed (it wasn't); he clicked the button next to the hatch, waiting for it to beep and admit him access (it wasn't)._

 _With a hefty grunt, he dropped himself onto the hatch, a last-ditch attempt at escaping. Naturally, it didn't work. Things weren't looking so good, then._

 _There was only one possibility this could mean – they'd found him. Stupid, stupid, stupid! How could he allow himself to walk willingly into this corner, all for a pretty sight?_

 _A small hiss sounded from within the wall of the chamber, seemingly from every possible corner. The Doctor searched the room on all fours, patting at the floor and trying to follow the mysterious hissing._

 _The effort started to leave him just a little breathless, which was one of many strange events that day. His bypass respiratory system meant that he could last without breathable air for much longer than a human being, a common fact of Time Lord biology._

 _Of course, there was only so much it could suffer before failing. He'd still run out of air sooner or later (well, 'later' in this instance, but never mind); it was just a matter of time._

 _The pinpricks of darkness flared before his eyes, growing more regular and increasing in size every time he blinked his eyes. His skin started to roast, as if he'd been sat in the sun, dozing for a few hours. Speaking of dozing…_

 _His arms and legs gave way, buckling under his slight weight and toppling him onto the ground. Loosening his collar, he gasped for breath, with none coming in to save him._

 _'_ _Mel…' he rasped with his last vestiges of consciousness, whilst his finger found the single button by the hatchway. His eyes bulged as he pressed the button, thumbing it as many times as he could muster._

 _However, his efforts slowly reduced until coming to a dead stop. The hand drooped to the floor, limp and lifeless. The remaining remnants of breath slipped out of his lips, and the blackness overcame him._

In the corridor below, a small army of guards stood to attention, a collection of marble statues in immaculate white.

'Now, then,' the Commander shouted, his arms crossed behind his back, as he strode up and down the corridor. 'I believe you've all heard of what this man is capable of, conscious or not. There's one way into that room, and one way out. If _one_ of you lets him escape, then you can all resign your posts immediately! Is that understood?!'

'Yes, sir.' the crowd chorused in response,

'Good,' nodded the Commander, pausing for dramatic effect. 'Now. You three,' he pointed to a trio of almost identical guards 'will retrieve the fugitive from the chamber. You six, guard the corridors. If he tries to make a break for it, shoot his legs. The rest, pan out, cover the rest of this section. If the first two waves fail, we're shutting the bulkheads and trapping him in.'

'Because that worked _so_ well last time.' one of the guards at the back laughed, mostly to himself.

The Commander stopped suddenly, before spinning on his heels. His beady eyes scanned up and down the crowd, before his arm reached amongst the troops and plucked the offender from the masses. Whimpering in fear, the troop, taking on a distinctly lamblike form, bleating for mercy.

'What did you say?' the Commander asked, holding up the guard by the scruff of his uniform. 'A disapproval of my methods?'

'No, no, no sir!' the guard squawked, holding up his hands in a desperate bid for pity.

'Well, well, well,' laughed the Commander, turning to his troops. 'I think we have a volunteer.'

He shoved the gabbling guard into the lift shaft, tossing a rifle at him. 'The person we're hunting a dangerous fugitive. The third person to ever successfully escape one of our cells in over 50 years, and overpowered two of our guards with nothing more than a packet of gum. He's crippled our engines by accident, and has outsmarted every crew member aboard this ship solo.' He shot the novice a grin. 'Good luck.'

Mel wandered in a daze, any of her surroundings barely registering any more. All of the houses blurred into one, an unintelligible squiggle of grey upon grey upon grey.

It was like a nightmare, some deep and primal manifestation of her fears. This was home, _her_ home, twisted and perverted to become a cruel caricature.

The darkness was stifling, digging into her skin and body, like thousands of hot needles, all pressing in slowly. Despite the lantern shining before her, there was still almost all of the village consumed by the night, giving refuge to anyone lurking there, waiting to pounce and attack her.

She dropped to the ground, squeezing her eyes shut, blocking out the world around her. The pouring rain washed down on her like a bucket of water, but she barely noticed. However, the chill started to drain the blood from her extremities, numbing her hand. The lantern slid out of her grip, falling the inch or so to the muddy – thankfully, it just about avoiding landing on its side and extinguishing the light.

Reaching forwards, she felt the practically arctic wind bite into her flesh, nibbling away at what few nerves remained. It was an anchor, something to hold onto, she convinced herself. All this, it must be a trick of the light, just an unusual illusion that granted itself with more importance than it was due.

On her hand, she could feel the wetness of the rain, the chill of the wind, the prickling of fatigue and exhaustion setting in.

And the smooth, soft feel of cloth.

Her eyes shooting open, she saw, stood before her like an angel of death, was the figure.

Crying out in instinctive terror, she flung herself backwards, away from the figure. With its clothed hand, it reached out to her, coming far too close for comfort to touching her face.

Kicking the muddy ground beneath her, she rolled backwards, managed to land on her feet, just away. At last, she was vertical again.

The pump of adrenaline did her the world of good, waking her up and shaking loose any remaining terrors or thoughts. She was instantly aware of all that was happening around her – the wind blew a leaf free from its branch across the yard, fluttering through the wind and falling to the floor. A flash of lightning boomed at 5 o'clock, sending a fragmented display of light onto the figure's profile. The lantern continued to flicker, a beacon of her safety in the sea.

Inspiration hit. Whilst the figure moved closer, its arm outreached all the while, Mel darted to the side, staying close enough to tempt it, but to still avoid being grabbed. She dropped to the ground, leaping onto the lantern and rolling for a few feet. The metal hook was snared in her fingers, her knuckles growing paler from the determination.

Standing up, she backed away a few feet from the figure, increasing the distance between as much as she could, before running into a nearby wall. Raising the lantern in the air, she tossed it over, watching the glass shatter and flames run over the cloak of the figure.

It didn't work. The fire simply fell onto the ground beneath, before staying there was the alight oil remained on top of the puddles. Mel gasped in horror at the sight, as the figure continued to move towards, as if the fire had never even touched it.

Desperately, she hit at the wall, hoping it would give way, provide her with an escape route of some sort. It was no good. The bricks remained as sturdy as they would be in 62 years, not even scratching.

The hands of the figure, tautly bound in fabric, reached out, getting closer and closer…


	8. Chapter 7: They Do It With Mirrors

Chapter 7: They Do It With Mirrors

They were watching the planes.

Mel could remember, even at this age, almost every second of the day in perfect detail; the time she was awoken by her mother (8.39), which song was playing on the radio at breakfast ( _Name of the Game_ , by ABBA), even the letters that had arrived (4 bills, 2 birthday cards and a postcard).

Her grandmother had been staying over for the last few days, and had taken great joy in recounting the tale to young Melanie. How, back in 1952, a young woman, a mere 25 years of age, had taken up the great honour of becoming sovereign ruler of this country.

That seemed odd to the 13-year-old Mel at the time. At 25, her cousin Lucy had just had her second baby. At 25, her uncle Terry had started his own business. At 25, her grandmother was serving in a munitions factor for the war.

Mel was halfway towards that enigmatic age of 25 one that day. What would she do when she that old? Half the time, the pressure scared her; the other half, she was excited for that day to come.

Still, her grandmother would tell, no time like the present. That morning, she put on her best dress, and joined her family in the main square of the village, along with what seemed to be everyone else she knew – Mr Parsons, who owned the sweet shop; Mr Henderson, the butcher; Miss Hawthorne, the teacher.

At exactly twelve noon, they all looked upwards, gazing at the perfectly blue sky. Not a minute later, a quintet of scarlet bullets shot across the sky in the shape of a 'V', to the whoops, cheers and applause of all the people.

They were the Red Arrows, her grandmother had told her, here to celebrate the Silver Jubilee of Queen Elizabeth II. Silver Jubilee, Mel had thought. Miss Hawthorne had told the class about that…it meant that it was celebrating the 25th anniversary of something.

Mel had paused to think about that, whilst she was sat in the classroom. This meant that the Queen had been ruler of the country for just as long as she hadn't been. It hadn't meant anything to anyone else in her class, but she thought it had been interesting.

However, five minutes before the jets soared overhead, Mel had felt dizzy. A quick breakfast, her mother had decided, combined with the heat of the sun. In order to help her cool down, her grandmother had escorted Mel to the statue to the side, sitting her down on the step beside it.

They were watching the planes.

And now, twelve years later and 53 years earlier, Mel was on that exact step, cowering beneath the looming form of the figure, as it inched closer to ending her life once and for all.

Another memory, amongst a haphazard rush of others, shot into her mind: She was… …7, playing on the steps on Boxing Day, 1969. The snow had fallen heavy that year, covering the whole village in a pile of gorgeous white sheets. She had made the foolish mistake of jumping onto the step, and promptly sliding straight off and knocking her head on the stone surface. Her parents had rushed her straight to hospital, through the slog of what looked like the entire of England in a single A+E waiting room. The doctor had decreed that it was just a cut, and she wouldn't stitches, thankfully. But ever since then, she'd remember the vicious jab of pain.

It was about to save her life. Mel placed her foot upon the step, and pushed down with all her weight. In a single motion, she slid off of the step, knocking her back and probably bruising it in the process.

The slide shot her through the legs over the figure, the skeletal cloth draping over her for a fleeting few seconds. She quickly clambered to her feet, wrapping a length of the cloth around her hand.

As she ran, the cloak was pulled from underneath the figure's feet, forcing it onto the ground. It wouldn't nearly as much damage as she'd have liked, but it was the distraction she needed.

Whilst the figure pulled itself to stand tall once more, Mel scarpered, taking a deep lungful of the night air and sprinting across the village green.

She hurdled over the fence running around one of the gardens, and again to exit it. At last, she was on the open land once again.

Driven by pure fear, she was at the apex of the hill in a matter of seconds, and down against just as quickly. With every force pushing to the floor, her legs countered them, just making her run even faster.

Not even once daring to look over her shoulder, she arrived back at the house, searching about her person in a mad flurry for the keys. She found the pocket she had placed them in and rummaged around inside it…

It was empty.

In horror, Mel turned out the pocket, revealing nothing but a small collection of lint and dust. Somewhere, in the distance she had just covered, was the keys.

She didn't even consider looking for them. Raising her foot to the door handle, she started to slam down with the heel of her foot, each impact rewarding her with a resounding _thud_. The door shook with each kick, but gave no sign of giving way.

On the fifth beat, the door quickly swung open. Mel's foot finished the journey, making impact with something on the other side.

Inside the house, Maisy groaned in pain, backing away the front door.

'Thank you!' Mel cried, shooting inside and slamming the door shut. Through the crack, in the split second before it shut, she swore she could have seen a collection of black, just on the horizon.

'What…' Maisy gasped, through the stitches of pain 'the _hell's bloody bells_ were you doing out there?!'

'Didn't you see the note?' Mel asked, removing the sodden overcoat. 'I left it on my bed.'

'What note?' Maisy asked, clutching her stomach and bracing herself against the wall. 'I haven't been in your room. I heard someone banging on the front door, so I'd come down here and had a look.'

'Well, I just thought I'd seen something.' Mel explained, rubbing her hands together to warm herself. 'Outside, in the village?'

'And you went alone?'

'I didn't want to wake you up.'

'So you decided to try and break the door down to keep quiet?'

'…Yes. I lost the keys.'

'No, no, hold on, let me get this straight. You sneak out under dead of night, creeping around the moors with a killer on the loose, Then, you run back to the house, losing the only set of keys to the front door. Well done.'

Mel stopped, 'I didn't mean to lose the keys.' she admitted in defeat.

'So what's the plan?' Maisy growled, her tone growing more and more savage with every passing syllable. 'How about, for an encore, burning the house down? How does that sound?'

'Is Arthur up yet?' Mel asked, fixated on a spot of much on the ground.

'No.' Maisy replied bluntly, crossing her arms. 'If he is, I've not heard him. Why?'

Mel opted not to answer the question; instead, she walked across the room, to the door to Arthur's room.

'Arthur?' she asked, rapping her fist on the door. 'Are you awake?'

She waited for the reply which didn't come. After a few seconds, she tried again.

'I think he's asleep.' Maisy muttered under her breath, scowling.

'No…' Mel replied, putting her ear to the door. 'Two nights ago, I came down to get something to eat in the night. I had to walk past Arthur's room, and I could hear him snoring from the stairs.'

'And?'

'And…it's silent. He isn't snoring.'

'Maybe he's cured it?'

'I don't think so.'

Mel attempted to open the door; it wouldn't budge. 'It's locked,' she told Maisy. 'Have you got your…'

'Lockpick?' Maisy answered, pulling the two hairpins out of her pocket. 'You're lucky I forgot I had these on me. Let's have a look, shall we, ma'am?'

She crouched in front of the door, peering through the keyhole. 'I can't see a key,' she announced, keeping her head as still as possible. 'So we should be alright.'

With the skill of a master thief, she inserted the lockpick into the slot, and started to pick. 'Tell you what – probably the one good thing that's coming out of all this is the practise I'm getting.'

'Yes, I was meaning to ask,' Mel replied 'Why can you pick a lock?'

'Girl guides.'

Mel raised an eyebrow, despite the futility of the gesture – Maisy would have to be an owl to see it.

'Let's just say my schoolmates weren't the best of company in hindsight.'

'I see.'

'What about you? You seem quite good on all this detective lark.'

'I just like to read,' Mel shrugged.

'Yeah, I gathered. Let me guess; when the teacher told the class that it was no talking, 15 minutes of quiet reading time, you were the only one who cheered?'

'That's about right, yes.'

'Thought so. It's just your whole…personality, really. No offence, but it's the way you are. You see, me, I couldn't stand school. Oh, I was grateful for the opportunity, chance to get out of the house and get a warm meal every day, but it was the learning I didn't like. I wasn't good at memorising the facts from books, or constantly copying out sentences and paragraphs. When the war came along, I was 17. Lied about my age to volunteer, then had it away. I spent my 18th birthday making cups of tea for injured soldiers. By the time I had my first leave, I was a free woman. I could do whatever the hell I liked.'

'Hence the Suffragettes?'

'That was a part of the problem. Everything was moving too slow for me. It took years, decades to make even the smallest change. It didn't work. What we needed, what we _really_ needed was action.'

'That's not always the best answer.'

'Never said it was. But it was the _right_ one. Look, I'm sorry about Arthur and his friend, but you know what they say – all's fair in love and war.'

'So you thought it was war?'

'Weren't exactly love, was it?'

Mel shook her head, leaning against the wall. 'Slow and steady wins the race, that's what I say.'

'That's all very well, but what when nothing happens? All empty promises and 'We'll do it when we get the chance'. How long are you willing to wait before the job's done?'

'As long as it takes.'

'We're still not finished! The wars ends, and they kick up a big fuss, about how they think equality is something everyone deserves. Votes for women! At long last! If you happened to be rich and white.'

Mel tilted her head, looking at Maisy. She didn't like to judge on appearances, but she could still sense just the slightest whiff of hypocrisy.

'There's only so long I'm willing to wait for. As soon as we get out of here, I'm going back home and get back on with the campaign.'

The door clicked, bringing their conversation to an end. Numbly, Maisy pulled the hairpins from the lock and put them back into her pocket. She looked at Mel:

'Well,' she said 'let's see how Arthur's doing.'

She pushed on the door, swinging it forwards and revealing the room inside.

 _'_ _Oh, hang on,' the voice said, seemingly everywhere at once. 'I think he's woken up.'_

 _The Doctor groaned, shaking himself awake. Bit by bit, the vision was restored to his eyes; at first, a blurred mess of different colours and sights. It soon developed through definitions into a crystal-clear picture._

 _He was on the bridge. Alongside, it looked like every possible guard had been posted in the room, like a tin of sardines. Half of them had weapons aimed at his noggin, with the other half simply staring into space._

 _His hat and umbrella were stuffed into a corner, alongside his jacket and pullover. The pile of contents was next to them, presumably when his pockets were turned out. Aside from his white shirt and trousers, the Doctor had been laid bare – even his socks were balled up and placed in his shoes with the others._

 _'_ _Rise and shine,' the Commander smiled, slapping the Doctor's cheek lightly. 'Awake now? Thought you'd like the bridge. Possibly the only room on the ship you haven't broken out of yet.'_

 _The Doctor nodded through walls of exhaustion, laughing at the thought._

 _'_ _Turns out we have a little bit of a situation on our hands. You see, you had a little…escapade, shall we say, inside our engines, didn't you? Delicate things, engines. Hundreds of different parts, all meaningless, but mess with one and it all goes up. See where this is going?'_

 _'_ _The cargo bay?'_

 _The Commander chuckled at the response. 'No, not the cargo bay. Not quite. When you delay the heating process by…oh, a matter of seconds, then it has consequences. One thing leads to another, and another._

 _'_ _Have you tried turning it off and on again?'_

 _'_ _Once or twice. But I've been looking through the security tapes. You've been a busy little bee, haven't you? So here's the deal. You fix our engines, and we kill you quickly.'_

 _'_ _And if I don't?'_

 _'_ _We kill you slowly.'_

 _The Doctor looked the Commander in the eye, thinking about the offer. 'I'm afraid I'll have to decline,' he answered, with as much sincerity as he could find._

 _'_ _No doubt you've got the profile of our target. Sol 3. Nasty little backwater, but high enough in minerals and resources.'_

 _'_ _You've studied the planet.'_

 _'_ _Oh yes. As much as we could. They've just exited from a worldwide skirmish a few years ago. The whole planet's shaking from the aftereffects.'_

 _'_ _The weapons down there would barely scratch the hull of this ship.'_

 _'_ _I know. They can't even break out of the atmosphere. Primitives.'_

 _'_ _In your recollection of this planet's history,' the Doctor spoke, rolling his tongue over the 'r', 'you might have a particular interest in a battle known as 'Rourke's Drift. Then, you might not be so confident in your superiority.'_

 _'_ _We have superior weapons,' the Commander retorted 'accurate training, dozens of other ships as backup and a vast tactical advantage. There is no conceivable circumstance in which this…_ planet _would become victorious.'_

 _'_ _Oh, I wouldn't be so sure of that. For starters, your engines are still broken.'_

 _'_ _Not any longer,' the Commander grinned, passing the Doctor a control panel. 'Have you made your choice?'_

 _'_ _Yes,' the Doctor spat in reply, snatching the control panel. 'I'll do it. But I don't like it.'_

 _'_ _Somehow, I didn't think you would.'_

Everything was still.

Every single object, from the plant in a pot on the sill, to the scraps of paper on the desk, to the water in the glass by the bed. It was like a picture cast into three dimensions, a bizarre recreation one would find in a museum or art gallery.

In the centre of the roo, the wheelchair was pushed over to its side, one wheel suspending in the air. As Maisy grabbed a spoke and pushed it, the wheel span around, squeaking slightly, before grinding to a halt.

Meanwhile, in the opposite corner, Arthur was crouched against the wall, his face petrified into a mask of horror and despair, eyes wide and bulging at the monstrous sight that had since vanished.

He was good few feet away from the chair, Mel mused silently. Whatever it was that had caused this – an academic point, surely – it had thrown him from his chair, but scared him so much that he had crawled himself to safety, or as close as he could manage.

One hand was digging into the floorboards, their last ditch attempt at pushing their own to safety. The other had fallen limply into his lap; most likely, he'd reached out to deter the assailant, and perished before succeeding.

'I think he's been dead for a while,' Maisy noted, removing her hand from his neck. 'Stone cold.'

'It must have been just after we went into the attic,' Mel decided, sitting down on the still-made bed. 'He didn't even make it to bed.'

'Look, there was nothing we could have done,' Maisy said, in a bid to comfort Mel. 'I mean, I'm sorry he's gone, but we've got to be realistic.'

'And then there were two,' Mel muttered, her gaze not once leaving Arthur's body. 'We can't last until morning, Maisy. I went into the village, and it was…it was a ghost town.'

'How far d'you reckon it is til the next village?'

'A couple of miles.' Mel could remember the walking holidays her parents used to take her on – a brisk march to the next village over, lunch in the local pub and back home again for tea. Only, it ended up being a day-long trek and way past nightfall before they reached the local. 'It'd take us all day to reach it.'

'Well, then,' Maisy said, standing up from the bed. 'Best get started, hadn't we?'

'We can't go now, it's too dark.'

'Didn't stop you, did it?'

'Why don't we just wait until morning, and go then? When it's daylight?'

'You just said we won't last that long.'

Mel frowned. Maisy did have a point, irritatingly. 'Alright, how about this. We wait until an hour or so before daybreak, then head out? That'll give us the most time to walk, but we're not spending too much time outside in the dark.'

'And what do we do until then?'

'As you would say – have a look around. There's got to be something we've missed, surely. Besides, anything's better than staying in here with Arthur. It's starting to give me the creeps.'

Mel went to exit the room, but Maisy didn't follow.

'Are you alright?'

'Arthur,' she replied, entranced by a fleck of cracked wallpaper on the wall opposite.

Oh no, Mel thought to herself. That's it, she's cracked.

'Arthur?'

'Arthur! What if there's more than one killer? Someone was behind all this, the mastermind, with an accomplice to give them an alibi? Then, things turn ugly, the accomplice bumps them off.'

'Go on?'

'Suppose Arthur was the killer. He knew the house better than anyone, so he'd be able to find any secrets ways in or out of the library. He was the only one around when Alice could've been poisoned.'

'And all the clearing-up?'

'The accomplice – that bloke outside in the cloak. He's just doing it to scare us, and put us on the wrong track.'

Mel worked over the theory internally. She had to admit, it did make sense, and fit the facts – but then again, could she see Arthur as a killer?

'And what if they were using a pseudonym all along? A shallow joke, to taunt their superior mind? What if the _author_ …was _Arthur_?!'

Mel groaned. This whole theory was based upon a cheap pun, and not a very good one at that.

'I think his niece might've known his real name,' she replied. 'And it all seems a little…odd. Why would he want to kill Oakley, or Alice? More to the point, why wouldn't he kill you?' Maisy reacted in a less than pleasant manner. 'Of all the people in this house tonight, you two are the only ones to show any hatred, or bitterness to each other. The only ones with any motives either way.'

'So you think I killed him?'

'No!'

'That's what you're implying. I'm not thick, you know.'

'You do a good impression, then.'

Straight away, Mel recoiled at her barb. As far backa s she could always pride herself on an unflappable sense of morality, that she would always strive to see the best in people, and show hers back in return. And now, it had come to this. Exchanging juvenile insults with someone she was supposed to be considering her friend.

'I'm sorry, I didn't-' Mel started, but it was too late.

'I knew it,' Maisy barked, shaking her head in disgust. 'Here I was, thinking you were different, that you were alright. But no. You're just like all the rest.'

'Maisy, I'm sorry-'

'Stuff it. You really do think I'm the murderer, don't you? That I could stoop that low.'

'No, honestly, I don't-'

'Because I didn't kill him! I know what you think, I know what he said about me and the movement, but I didn't hate him!'

'Maisy-'

'I never wanted this to happen to him, not in a million years. I don't hate him! I love him!'

Mel paused, letting the words sink in, whilst Maisy, still comprehending what she had just said, dropped back onto the bed.

'Look,' Maisy started, feeling a single tear sting her eye. 'I know what it looks like. I knew it could never happen, but to be honest? I didn't care. Every couple of months, I'd come back and stay for a few days. Not long, but I'd get to see him.'

'I found out from a friend the other week about what had happened – old letters from the war they'd dug up in the office whilst clearing out. How…what was his name? Nicky Harris? was on the list. Found some old news articles and put two and two together. I was going to tell him, really, I was. I just wanted him to let him know that I didn't have anything to do with it, that I was just as against the idea was he was.'

'But then there was that little outburst tonight. And I just got carried away with myself. I hate people accusing me, especially when I'm innocent. I don't know what it was, but I just couldn't stop myself. Before I realised what was going on, it was too late.'

'Oh, Maisy…'

'And now it's too late. I've missed my chance.'

 _Idly, the Doctor thumbed a series of the switches, watching the corresponding lights blink up on the console. He carefully memorised the patterns, recording as many of them as he could into his mind. You never know when things like that come in useful, he told himself._

 _'_ _Get on with it,' the Commander snapped, whacking his palm on the table. The sudden blast of sound caused the Doctor to leap a foot in the air, before he returned to Earth._

 _'_ _Perfection can't be rushed,' the Doctor replied airily, taking care to slow his tempo a touch. Just to irritate the grouch._

 _'_ _No, but you can. I want this engine fully functional by the hour.'_

 _Discretely, the Doctor glanced at his wristwatch. He had twelve minutes left before he would have to face the music._

 _'_ _That room,' he said, stalling for time. 'in the centre of the ship. What is it?'_

 _'_ _Particular reason you need to know?'_

 _'_ _Not really.'_

 _'_ _Then it's nothing. Get on with it.'_

 _The Doctor worked some more for a few seconds. 'I only ask because, when dealing with kit along these lines, it helps to know anything and everything aboard the ship. In case of emergency.'_

 _Hearing this, the Commander stopped in his tracks. 'Alright,' he replied, moving to a console and pattering away at a few keys. 'Here's the technical specifications. That's all you'll need to know.'_

 _'_ _Thank you,' the Doctor mumbled in false gratitude. 'This will be most useful.'_

 _For a scant few thoughts, he considered making a break for it. It wouldn't be completely impossible – the heavy bags around the guards' eyes showed their fatigue, and the slouching of their spines didn't help matters. Estimated response time? Maybe…3 seconds, 4 at a push? If he could create a big enough diversion…_

 _The door was still locked, he ruefully remembered. That would take a few seconds to open, not to mention any guards waiting on the other side._

 _But maybe there was something he'd missed, perhaps? An alternative route out of the control room? If nothing else, he could at least try…_

 _'_ _Get out.' he shouted suddenly, halting his work. 'I can't work in these conditions!'_

 _'_ _Sorry?' the Commander asked, quite obviously not very sorry at all._

 _'_ _It's too crowded!' the Doctor cried, throwing his hands up in the air – a touch of the dramatic borrowed from his past life. 'There's no thinking space!'_

 _The Commander's eyes narrowed, as he thought about the request. 'You 6,' he said, pointing to around half of the guards in the room. 'Have a tea break. The rest, stay here.'_

 _The group of guards shuffled to the bulkhead, and exited meekly._

 _Well, the Doctor thought. Things seemed to be looking up._

 _When he was brought in, he could've sworn that there was a service hatch, or conduit of some sort underneath the elevated platform he was currently stood upon. He'd need an excuse to check..._

 _Squeezing his eyes shut, he recalled the buttons from memory. Overload the primary power cells, shut off all other connections, preheat the oven. That should do it. With an eloquent flick of the wrist, he punched in the chain of buttons._

 _Suddenly, the platform beneath him started to spark, a small fire breaking out, from what he could smell. Like a shot, one of the guards produced a fire extinguisher, and started to spray at the fire, coating the electronics in a cloud of mist._

 _Grabbing the railing, the Doctor vaulted over the side, landing dully on the deck._

 _'_ _No, no, no!' he ordered, swatting the guard. He pulled the grille from the slot, revealing the web of wires and mechanisms inside. 'You'll ruin it?'_

 _'_ _Problem?'_

 _'_ _Nothing irreparable,' the Doctor answered, with a rather well-faked sigh of relief. 'It'll take a little longer, however.'_

 _The Commander screwed up his face, before releasing it again. 'Alright,' he admitted at last. 'But make it quick.'_

 _In response, the Doctor went to doff his absent hat, before getting about fixing the electronics._

 _Five minutes and two burnt fingers later, he'd just about managed to put Humpty Dumpty together again. Wiping his brow, he replaced the grille and rose to his feet._

 _'_ _Sorted?'_

 _'_ _Just about, yes. I wondered if I might have a break?'_

 _'_ _When you're finished, yes.'_

 _'_ _Ah. Most kind, thank you.'_

 _As soon as the Commander's gaze was averted, the Doctor scowled, a well-known insult in certain cultures native to the Imani Belt._

 _On the one hand, he'd been able to find the maintenance hatch, his escape from this room and quite possibly the single most important saviour on planet Earth._

 _On the other, the Commander was standing right on top of it._

Gently, Mel pulled the door to a shut, hearing the lock click back into place.

All throughout the house, there was nary a sound; even the grandfather clock by the front door had ticked its last tock for today. The rain pittered on the glass window, but it barely even reached Mel or Maisy by now.

'So what's the plan?' Maisy asked, hollowed out like a Russian doll. 'Any bright ideas?'

'My room,' Mel replied, starting to walk towards the stairs. 'I've got some candles set up. We can bring them down here, give us some light.'

'If you say so, ma'am.' Maisy muttered, sitting cross-legged on the floor. Mel stopped halfway up the stairs, expectantly beckoning at Maisy.

'I'm not coming with you,' Maisy answered, pointing to herself. 'I'm staying put.'

'It'll safer if we stick together.'

'Sod that for a game of toy soldiers. Beastie boy comes after us, and we're dead no matter what. There could be four of us – there _was_ four of us, and look how much good it did!'

'Maisy, I just think it'd be safer if we stuck together.'

'You're only going to your room. It's hardly no-man's-land.'

Mel tutted, before turning around. 'Suit yourself.' she shrugged, completing her journey up the stairs.

It's funny how time can affect you. How a room likes in daylight can be completely different to the dead of night. In fact, it reminded Mel of the old photographs her parents used to show her – how they were captured in both positive and negative.

She sighed to herself. She was starting to sound more like the Doctor than herself with each passing day, waxing on about time.

The corridor seemed to stretch out before her, doubling in size every time she took a footstep closer to her room. She could barely feel her feet coming into contact with the ground, or the draught wrapping around her exposed flesh. The drops of rain were still entangled with her hair, but none of the cold reached her nerves.

She was numb.

At long last, she reached her door. Darting her head back and forth, checking that the ghost wasn't to her left or her, or peering over her shoulder, she pulled out the key and unlocked the door.

As she had put out the candles before leaving, the room was in total darkness. Even the faint traces of moonlight couldn't find their way into the room.

Mel left the door open, making use of what little light was still available. She clambered over the pile of clothes she'd left by the door, searching for the first candle.

It wasn't there.

Starting to panic a little, Mel felt around a little further. The candle had definitely been here when she left the house an hour or so ago.

Not good.

Definitely panicking a little more, Mel felt her heart start to race. None of the candles were there. Somehow, they'd all been moved.

With a sickening lurch, Mel felt her stomach churn. She knew exactly how they'd vanished – the figure. It had come into her room and taken the candles whilst she was out.

In fact, it had probably stood in this exact spot when doing so. As if it were on fire, Mel moved to the side, grimacing at the thought. It was official. There was nowhere that was safe from the assailant.

'Change of plan,' she called, practically falling down the stairs. 'There's no candles.'

'What?!'

'They've gone missing. We'll have to stay down here.'

'But it's pitch black!'

'There's nothing I can do.'

'Aren't there some spare candles by the fireplace?'

'They're the ones I took into my room. There aren't any left.'

'Oh, _brilliant_. Now we're stuck here in the dark until morning? Well, it's convenient. We can get a two-for-one on headstones.'

'Just calm down,' Mel muttered, folding her arms. 'Professor Oakley, what was his first name?'

'Why d'you ask?'

'Just a thought, that's all.'

'Alright. Albert.'

'Albert?'

'Yeah. Albert Oakley. You must've heard it in the papers.'

'Albert…'

'What is it now?'

'Albert, then Alice, then Arthur.'

'Yeah? So what?'

Mel grinned. 'I think I've got it. It's alphabetical!'

'Sorry?'

'All of the murders have been happening in alphabetical order. Ab, then Al, then Ar.'

'So? What does that prove?'

'It means that there might not be a motive, not as such. Things like this can make sense to some minds.'

'Hang on,' Maisy started, working it out in the air. 'All of them have been alphabetical, right?'

'That's right.'

Maisy's face fell, her eyes gloomily staring at the floor. 'So I'm next.'


	9. Chapter 8: Appointment With Death

Chapter 8: Appointment With Death

In a way, it quite reminded her of a hawk.

She'd seen the documentaries about then when she was younger, on the rainy days when going outside wasn't an option and there was nothing else on.

She'd seen the way they circled their prey, taunting it, slowly creeping closer towards, inch by inch by inch, until it finally made the last move.

She'd seen the way it struck out at the prey, snapping it up and devouring it in a matter of seconds.

She'd seen it fly away, content with its meal and heading for its next target.

They were trapped. That was a fact, she had come to accept, which was no small feat. All they could do was hope that their glares would fend off the predator, or that pretending not to notice it would turn its stomach and halt the attack.

Discretely, Mel checked the pocket watch, so that Maisy wouldn't notice. It was just gone four in the morning. At this time of year, there should be at least the faintest chance of a sunrise by now, the remotest glimmer of light beaming over the horizon.

But there was nothing. An opaque, impenetrable wall of blackness was at every window, blotting out the village, hills and sky above them. Mel pressed her face right up against the glass, but it did no good. The distant sanctuary evaded her sight.

The reminders of futility hanging over their heads, they barricaded the doors and windows, fortifying the house. Anything that even slightly resembled a weapon had been gathered in the dining room, from the revolver to the butter knives in the kitchen. Instead of packing them away, they kept them lying on the floor, plain to see. This way, if one were to go missing, they'd realise as soon as possible.

After gathering their cache, they made their way up the stairs, inspecting each room they passed. There was eight rooms on the second floor; the library, the bathroom and 6 guest rooms. Of these 6 guest rooms, 2 were empty, and the rest were used by Mel, Alice, Professor Oakley and Maisy respectively.

However, if you were to check each room with a clear mind, that wasn't the impression they gave.

Mel's was full of the usual clutter, in the same piles and disorder as she had left it before. That was a relief – the figure hadn't returned to her room.

Maisy's was almost infuriatingly neat, as if it were a deliberate subversion of her manner. All of her clothes were packed into the suitcase, the bedspread was pulled taut across the mattress and tucked at the corner and the vase on the windowsill emptied of the dying flowers.

In fact, apart from the suitcase in the corner, it was almost indistinguishable from the other rooms.

All the other rooms, including those of Alice and Professor Oakley, were immaculately made, clear of any traces of dust and litter.

'It's like they were never here…' Maisy gaped absent-mindedly, as she tested the bed for hidden secrets. 'No sign of them.'

'They've moved on from just the bodies, then,' Mel replied, looking in vain out of the window. 'They're taking their lives as well as their deaths.'

'This is what's going to happen to me.' Maisy nodded slowly, dropping to the bed as the blood was sucked from her face. 'It's going to kill me, and then I'll be gone. Never have existed.'

'It's not going to get you,' Mel tutted, as warmly as she could manage. Oh. That was a good lie. She'd never thought of herself as a good liar; she'd always believed herself to be honest and open to others. Someone trustworthy.

'I'm not stupid,' Maisy sniffed, starting to lose her already tenuous grip. 'It's going to come for me. If it's not, then it's coming for you.'

'It's not coming for either of us.' Mel answered, joining her on the bed. 'We're going to get through this. Both of us.'

Maisy shrugged her away, staring at a small gap in the floorboards. 'Arthur didn't,' she replied at last. 'Alice didn't. The Professor didn't. Why are we going to be any different?'

That got her. Mel paused, looking away in shame.

'Just look at my room,' Maisy cried, throwing her hand in the vague direction. 'It wasn't like that before. It's packed up my stuff, tidied everything away. It's getting ready for me. It's getting ready to make me disappear.'

Mel had to admit, she did have a point. Unless they did something quickly, it wasn't looking good for Maisy. Of course, she'd never tell her that. As the Doctor would say, poor bedside manner.

'I have a friend,' she finally said, turning to Maisy. 'He can help. He'll know what to do.'

'Yeah? Where is he?'

'…I don't know. But he'll be here. He said he was coming to get me, when the holiday was finished.'

'So we just have to wait 6 short days with a homicidal killer roaming loose?'

Mel frowned. Was there any other type of killer? Fortunately, she managed to conceal it at the last second.

'Don't suppose anyone will mind if I pop it,' Maisy muttered. 'Nobody'll give a toss. Yeah, they'll _pretend_ to, say how they always wanted to know me better, or thought I was a good person. But it'll just be a lie. Truth is, they'll barely remember my name, or my face. Enough people died over the last few years. What's one more, eh?'

Suddenly, she was shaken, like she'd been knocked unconscious and was struggling to stay vertical.

'Of course,' she wobbled, barely forming the words through her lips 'that's to say I'm still here in the morning. If – _when_ it kills me, I'll vanish. Fade away into the house, along with Alice, Arthur, the Professor, all the others. Bet you won't remember me.'

'I won't need to,' Mel replied. 'because you're not going to die. You're going to make it.'

'Do us a favour,' Maisy told her, her hollowed-out eyes boring into Mel's mind. 'leave the fantasy alone. Come back to the real world.'

For the first time in a few minutes, Mel turned forwards, positioning her hands on her knees and holding her gaze at Maisy. 'There's only one room left,' she said, standing to her feet.

In a single movement, her head spun around, finding the door.

The figure was stood before her.

 _With a meaningful flourish, the Doctor rapped away at the console, over-dramatically pressing buttons and hoping he looked convincing enough. The stony glare of the Commander flooded over him, examining his every move with the utmost scrutiny._

 _'_ _Are you nearly done?' the Commander asked loftily, generously tossing boredom over his statement._

 _'_ _Nearly,' the Doctor replied, pressing one last button with a sense of false achievement. 'I just need to make some adjustments to the engines…'_

 _He stepped towards the bulkhead, going to leave. As he predicted, the Commander moved to block his path, away from the hatch. Quickly, the Doctor eyed it, before returning his sights to the Commander._

 _'_ _I think one of our own will suffice,' the Commander answered, laughing amicably. Never let a crocodile smile, thought the Doctor to himself. 'Besides. You'll be much too busy in here, won't you.'_

 _It wasn't a question, the Doctor decided instantly. It was a declaration. 'Yes,' he agreed, breaking out into a smile. 'Good idea.'_

 _The Commander beckoned for the nearest guard to exit the room with a swift motion of his hand._

 _'_ _I had a box,' the Doctor mentioned quietly, getting back to work. 'In the corridor. I don't suppose you know where it went?'_

 _'_ _Waste removal, probably.' sniffed the Commander. 'It was cluttering up the place.'_

 _The Doctor felt the blood drain from his face. 'Yes, of course.' he mumbled back, one eyebrow raised in an expression of part-confusion and part-sorrow. 'I couldn't have it back, by any chance?'_

 _'_ _I shouldn't think so. Most likely thrown out into space by now. If only you hadn't wasted so much time running about…' the Commander tutted. 'Shame, I suppose. It would've gone so lovely with the rest of the ashes.'_

 _The Commander strode across the bridge, back to his original position. With baited breath, the Doctor watched as he moved closer, inch by inch, to the service hatch. Closer…closer…_

 _A sigh of relief. He just missed it, standing a foot or so to the side. Not much, but better than the first time._

 _From what he could gather, the ship was fully automated, based upon the controls at his fingertips. Whilst this meant that it could function with a minimalist crew such as this, it also meant that it would only take one or two wrong buttons to set off a chain reaction. Basic human error; the greater the responsibility, the more likely a chance of failure._

 _With a swipe of his index finger, the Doctor deactivated the door-locks on this deck. They hissed in retaliation, but the guards seemed not to notice. Perhaps they'd been trained to ignore all the odd creaks and groans of a ship this size, all the better to allow them to focus on their duties. Perhaps they were just ignorant._

 _The two plates forming the hatch quivered, the seal being broken evidently. One step closer to freedom. His eyes darting upwards, the Doctor's gaze met with that of a guard's, stood just opposite him. All eyes were on him, it would appear. Don't worry, he reassured himself. You could be making a cup of tea and they still wouldn't notice._

 _There was an automatic option for the hatch, according to the monitor. Whilst it saved him the time-consuming job of opening it, it still wouldn't provide a diversion. That was something he'd have to sort out himself, apparently._

 _Idly, the Doctor started to whistle. The tune wandered aimlessly through the notes, eventually fixing on a mix between Camptown Races and It's a Long Way to Tipperary. In the corner of his eye, he saw one guard exchange confused looks with another and chuckled to himself._

 _'_ _The rendezvous will be here shortly.' one of the guards chirped suddenly, making the Doctor flinch at the sudden sound. '22 minutes, according to their calculations.'_

 _'_ _Good. You have a deadline, Doctor.' the Commander drawled. 'Otherwise, we can get one of their engineers to finish the job, and you may become a tad…superfluous.'_

 _'_ _Nothing like pressure to hasten the workload, eh?' the Doctor replied nervously._

 _Reinforcements. Never a good sign. Even if he managed to stop this ship, there'd be at least another one to take its place. Unless…yes, that was a possibility. Scant, but it might just work._

 _That portion of the plan could wait. First things first, he needed to escape. Fantasising about future developments was all well and good, but he needed a touch of realism more than anything. The umbrella, hat and other items would have to remain here. He simply wouldn't have time to reclaim and make his mistake. That's alright, he decided. If his plan worked, he'd have more than enough time to come back for them. And if it didn't…well, he could always buy a new umbrella, couldn't he?_

 _The console chimed, a regular pulsating beat of four. All of the guards stood attention to it, whilst the Commander rolled his eyes in irritation. 'Problem, Doctor?' he asked._

 _'_ _No, no,' the Doctor replied cheerfully, frantically pressing as many buttons as he could to try and stop the noise. 'That's supposed to happen.'_

 _'_ _That's the security alarm. It means that somebody's trying to get into the system via an unorthodox route.'_

 _'_ _Does it? How fascinating.'_

 _'_ _You better not be trying anything, Doctor. I hate to get blood on the deck, you see. Almost impossible to get out.'_

 _'_ _Hate to be an inconvenience,' the Doctor muttered under his breath. Slamming his fist on the console with a single, hard thump, he silenced the alarm._

 _One button was ready to go – open the hatch. The command had been keyed in ages ago, but he simply didn't have the chance to use it. He'd be turned into a block of Swiss cheese before you could say 'Don't shoot, it wasn't me'._

 _Nonchalantly, the Doctor noticed the pipes running around the top of the bridge. Stencilled on one side was the words 'OXYGEN SUPPLY. DO NOT BLOCK.'_

 _A rather interesting idea popped into the Doctor's mind, as they seemed to have a habit of doing every now and then. A valve was in the arch of the pipe, presumably computer-synchronised…yes, that would do quite nicely._

 _With a well-placed press, the oxygen in-flow into the pipes increased tenfold, as high as it would go. At the same time, the valve tightened, cutting off the overflow tanks. The pipes began to scrape, the metal straining under the pressure of the increasing gas. One by one, the guards all looked at the ceiling, bemused by the new arrival of sound._

 _Some of the pipes started to expand outwards, a small curve in the arced metal._

 _WARNING: PRESSURE EXCEEDING SAFETY LIMITS, the computer screen said. DO YOU WISH TO CONTINUE?_

 _Almost gleefully, the Doctor pressed 'YES'._

 _There was a whistling, a pinprick in the pipes amplified by the magnificent rush of air. And suddenly, there was a bang._

 _It was like a dozen balloons being popped all at once, the actual ground shaking with the force. The guards all clutched their ears in a desperate bid to block out the dreaded ringing sound._

 _Tapping the button, the Doctor dove forward, his body curved like a dolphin. He soared through the air, passing the annoyed, confused, dazed gawk of the Commander._

 _His hands passed through the hatch, followed by his arms, then his torso, then abdomen, legs and finally feet. Not a second later, the hatch slid shut again, sealing with a clunk._

Instincts were useful things, really, Mel had decided. They told you whether to turn and run as fast as you can or know when it's your time to fight. They can tell you who to avoid, or what you shouldn't eat, or whether you should an umbrella or sunhat out with you.

They can also bring disjunct memories racing to the surface, events remembered but buried under a lifetime of actions. She was eight, as far as she could remember (which was to the second). Her school had just introduced a gymnastics class for her year – every Monday lunchtime, they'd take them to the assembly hall, put down some safety mats and let them leap and prance through the air.

Mel had immediately taken to the activity, her petite form providing a useful asset even at that age. Within a few sessions, she'd learnt how to properly kick off with her legs, getting the right angle to throw yourself backwards safely.

Whilst the class had stopped after a few months thanks to funding (or rather, the lack thereof), the motion had been locked in her memory, along with every other minute of her life. When she combined it with the hours of aerobics she'd participated in, the answer came to her.

Grabbing Maisy's shoulders with her hands, Mel kicked against the floor, slamming down with her dominant foot. The force threw the two of them over the bed, rolling across the duvet. Mel definitely wasn't strong enough to move the two of them all the way, but Maisy got the hint almost instantly. Tucking her head into her chin, Maisy allowed herself to roll the rest of the wall, falling onto to the floor. A moment later, Mel joined her.

They didn't allow themselves any respite. Mel practically threw herself up, watching the figure across the bed. It stood there, motionless, anticipating their next trick.

'So now what?' Maisy asked, pressing herself into the corner.

'We'll see what it does.' Mel answered. 'If it goes around the bed, we can go over. If it goes over, we can go around.'

The adversary didn't move. Mel watched its shroud flap in the light breeze, the pale glow of the corridor's candlelight shining through the thin fabric.

'I think I can see a slight dilemma with your plan,' Maisy murmured, daring to blink even once. 'What do we do now?'

'We'll have to wait.' Mel resigned. 'There's not much we can do.'

A tense few beats passed. Both women stared at the figure, eagerly anticipating its next move.

'Run.' Maisy said. 'Just run.'

'I can't leave you here,' Mel protested. 'You won't stand a chance!'

'It's me it wants, not you. You can buy yourself a bit more time to think, or run, or whatever. You said it yourself – it's going by alphabet. There's nothing you can do, ma'am. It's got us cornered.'

'I'm not leaving you.'

Mel glanced downwards. In particular, she started to examine the edges of the quilt tucked underneath the mattress. An idea came to her.

'When I say run,' she whispered to Maisy 'run.'

'What?!'

Before Mel could respond, she ducked down and stuffed her fingers underneath the mattress. Snapping her legs up again, she tossed the mattress over, sending the pillows flying through the air. The blanket formed a rough net, ensnaring the figure.

It happened way too quick for the figure. As Mel leaped forwards, the mattress landed on top of it. If it was made of matter, it would've felt the crushing atop it.

'Run!' Mel cried, jumping over the now empty bedframe and onto the mattress. The combined weight of both her and Maisy seemed to be enough to keep it down, and within a few clambering movements, they were through the door.

The two of them landed in the corridor, impacting against the wall opposite. Feeling the keys in her pocket, Maisy grabbed the door handle and swung it shut, clicking the lock shut.

Both of them leant against the wall. They gulped for breath, due to the hefty dose of shock and exhaustion.

'That was close,' Maisy huffed, pointing at the door. 'D'you think it can get out of there?'

'Most likely, yes,' Mel replied, downcast. 'We've got to hide somewhere.'

'What time is it?'

Mel checked the watch. 'Half past four in the morning.' she answered, stifling a yawn once more. 'We should be getting _some_ sunlight by now, surely?'

'Something's wrong,' Maisy nodded in agreement. 'You know, I thought the bloke would at least by trying the door by now. Seeing if he can break the lock.'

'We'd have heard it. And the locks weren't any problem before.'

Mel turned to Maisy suddenly, her eyes wide. 'The window.'

 _It was quite a gamble, if he was entirely honest. Schematics, plans and blueprints could only tell you so much. For example, they could tell you that it was four feet to the conduit beneath, and that the tunnel was composed of cast-iron metal._

 _What it didn't tell you, however, was how much it would hurt to crash into it head first, feet sprawling in the air._

 _Quietly, he let out a muffled groan, gingerly rubbing his head. There'd be a lump there come morning, he was sure._

 _Through the metal plating of the hatch, he could hear the Commander barking orders to the men and, against his better judgment, gave a little giggle at the thought. At least one way or another, he'd managed to land them in hot bother._

 _The tunnel stretched out before him, continuing for miles and miles before his eyes. A set of rungs was moulded into the side of the conduit, presumably so the engineers wouldn't become trapped whenever the artificial gravity when off-line. A myriad of lights and cables were dotted up and down the place, joining by a regular hum of machinery._

 _Inching his elbows, forward, he started to crawl through the tunnel, risking getting his shoulders wedged in place with every movement._

 _All along the side of the tunnel, bits of wire and mechanism were hanging out, the leftovers from dozens upon dozens of repair jobs, all started but very few finished. It went someway to explain the state of the ship, then. Perhaps the Commander had all the engineers shot whenever the ship lurched and spilt his afternoon tea. Or perhaps they were simply just as incompetent as the rest of the crew._

 _The tunnel reached a cross-junction, providing him with a little bit more space. A ladder ran upwards, to the next series of shafts that were zig-zagged throughout the core of the ship. On the wall opposite, 'EE-57' had been carved into the metal._

 _Hooking his arms around the nearest pole, the Doctor rested for a moment, catching his breath. As far as he could tell, the ladder went from the very top to the very bottom of the ship, going just as far in the opposite direction._

 _Muttering wordlessly, he plotted the course ahead in his mind. Down the shaft twelve levels to EE-69 and across to GH-69. Easy as pie._

 _Ending his relief, the Doctor started to descend down the ladder. The various tubes crept past him, each one identical in every respect to the last and next._

 _At last, he reached his exit. Repositioning himself, he started to move to the left – or at least, he thought it was to the left. He was already starting to lose his sense of direction._

 _There was a thrumming, echoing through the tunnels. As he heard it, the Doctor froze, gripping the rung as tight as he could._

 _'_ _He's in here somewhere!' a voice shouted, rebounding through the conduit. 'Get looking!'_

 _It seemed to come from everywhere at once. The Doctor looked all around for a few tries, but it was useless._

 _'_ _Change of plan,' he reassured himself, trying to turn around and failing embarrassingly. 'Going down!'_

 _He reached the next ladder, pulling himself into the shaft. From somewhere, there was a pounding of boots as seemingly dozens of troops piled into the system._

 _'_ _Fan out!' the voice shouted, accompanied by the hissing of a door sealing. 'Find an entry point, guard it with your life!'_

 _Precariously, the Doctor looked down the channel. The circle shrank the further the tunnel led down, forming a minuscule pinprick at the nadir. Even he would struggle with counting the levels it led to._

 _The thumping of boots grew closer. With a reluctant whimper, the Doctor pulled his sleeves up over his hands and gripped the poles of the ladder as best he could._

 _'_ _Here we go…' he murmured, placing his first foot on the ladder. The rush of anticipation filled him, and a grin pure with excitation formed on his face. The second foot joined the first._

 _'_ _Hey!'_

 _A guard appeared in the tunnel, a few metres away from the Doctor. In the frantic few seconds he used to fumble for his weapon, the Doctor kicked away from the ladder and slid down._

 _The chute flew by, each conjoining tunnel flitting by faster and faster and faster still. The thin material between his skin and metal stopped the Doctor searing the flesh from his hands, but the wind still whipped his hair and ruffled the loose strands of shirt at his waist. Bewildered guards gasped and yelled at the sight, each of them unable to fire in time._

 _He glanced down. The ground was getting closer all the time, now plainly visible. 'Oh no…'_

 _The Doctor tightened his grip on the ladder, starting to slow him down._

 _A guard shot out at the bottom of the shaft. As fast as he could, the weapon was aimed upwards and a single blast was fired._

 _As soon as the trigger was squeezed, the Doctor reached his arms out, a single movement that shot him against the opposite wall of the tunnel._

 _The blast missed the Doctor by mere inches, one of the miniature tendrils licking at his shirt and scorching it. However, it flew up the tube like a flare, eventually blasting at the peak._

 _For the last few feet, the Doctor was in freefall, both arms and feet flailing for want of a hold. It didn't work._

 _He landed in a pile on top of the shooter, knocking him out in an instant. The Doctor landed on his feet, his legs buckling straight away from the force. But he made it._

 _Beaming at the success, the Doctor started to the crawl through the next tunnel._

'There's just one last thing,' Mel told her friend as they passed the ladder. 'before we go downstairs.'

'Yeah, yeah, fine, just hurry up.' Maisy retorted, checking over her shoulder quickly.

Nodding in silent response, Mel started to climb the ladder, leaving the field of light behind.

The loft was just as before, the boxes arranged almost perfectly, if not the slight disruption of an inch or so. Through the still air, the tapping of the typewriter resonated. But this time, Mel wasn't frightened. She simply didn't have the time.

Moving around the corner, she watched the typewriter clack and ding, a constant stream of letters being pressed into the crinkled paper.

 _The enemy moved around the side of the house, following the decayed brick wall. Above it, the night sky was a sheet of dark blue, without the slightest hint of dawn present._

 _It knew its time was approaching, its last chance at salvation. Time was rapidly escaping, however; the vanishing horizon growing closer evermore told it that much._

 _The hills had been lost to the night now. The distant lands were only mere memories, and the village a caricature of its old self._

The typewriter stopped. Mel had raised it in the air, checking the space underneath for any sign of a hidden mechanism.

There was a thin sheet of dust covering the desk, illuminated by the flickering candlelight. But apart from that, it was a crate, the exact same as the others piled up all around.

At the side, there was the two candle, as tall as they had been the first time. Experimentally, Mel licked her thumb and index finger and prodded at the candle. It extinguished, putting half the room into darkness.

So the candles were real, then. Which did raise the question of how they were keeping alight for this long? Even with salt, they'd have melted more of the wax that this.

Mel grabbed onto the paper and pulled it from the slot, scooping up the pile next to her and shuffling them together. She rolled the pile into a cylinder and held it like a bat, as she headed back towards the ladder.

'It's still there,' she shouted down the hole to Maisy below. 'The typewriter.'

Maisy turned and called back: 'What I want to know, is where's all the paper coming from?'

'I don't know. Must a box of it somewhere.'

'Shame we can't use it. Makes good firewood.'

Mel jumped down the last few rungs to the ground. 'That's it, now. Nowhere else anybody could be hiding.'

 _The Doctor pulled himself out of the tunnel, streaks of grime and dirt across his shirt. Around him, the corridor was silent, completely free of any life._

 _Pressing the button, he shut the hatch, shutting off the conduit inside. Dusting his hands, he stood up straight._

 _According to his calculation, he was at the exact base of the ship. Unless you knew for sure, there was no way to know – it was verbatim to all the other corridors._

 _There'd be guards en route even now. And quite frankly, he was starting to run out of places to hide._

 _The Doctor started to walk down the corridor, tucking his hands into his pockets. He had…ooh, 12 minutes or so before the reinforcements arrived. Even if he had complete control of the ship, he still wouldn't stand a chance at stopping them; he was glad to admit his military strategy was on the rusty side._

 _He rounded a corner, examining the nearest door. ADVANCED TRAINING read the sign next to it. 'This will do nicely…' the Doctor purred. He tapped the button to open it._

 _In lieu of the soft_ bing _that usually came, it was an ugly clunk. The door refused to budge. The Doctor tested the button a few more times, before hitting the door in annoyance with the base of his fist._

 _He looked up and down a few times, before placing his fingers into the tiny gap in the door. Despite his best efforts, it still wouldn't open._

 _The stomping of boots boomed just around the corner. Guards. The Doctor ducked back behind the corner, out of sight._

 _Before him, the two guards passed by, emotionless marionettes in action. They headed towards the end of the corridor, not noticing the Doctor a few metres away._

 _He returned to the corridor, heading in the opposite direction._

 _Two minutes later, he was just was baffled as before. Presumably, the Advanced Training was the bulk in the centre of the ship, the mysterious chamber the Commander didn't want him to know anything about. All the more alluring, he thought to himself._

 _And another thing – it was the only door so far that had been locked. Even the bridge had only been guarded. Which implied that it wasn't locked for security reasons, but for safety._

 _A computer terminal. That would do nicely…he'd lost the element of surprise, so anything was up for grabs._

 _He reached the next door. CABIN 47. Gently, he pressed the button and opened the door._

 _The lights flashed on as soon as he entered. A quartet of bunkbeds was in each corner, with a communal computer terminal in the middle. The Doctor crossed towards it, cracking his knuckles._

 _'_ _Here we go…' he intoned slowly, as he started to type._

 _ACCESS CODE: SCHEMATICS_

 _ACCESS DENIED_

 _ACCESS CODE: OVERRIDE_

 _CLEARANCE REQUIRED_

 _PRIMARY PRIORITY_

 _ACCESS PERMITTED_

 _The Doctor smiled._

 _ACCESS SCHEMATICS / D1_

 _A wall of text flooded the screen, words and numbers more or less illegible. 'Yes, yes, yes,' the Doctor grunted, waving his hand in exasperation. 'Ah ha!'_

 _The blueprints moved onto the screen, highlighting the name of each room._

 _At last, he reached the room for which he was looking. Advanced Training. INFORMATION BLOCKED. The Doctor barely resisted the urge to hit the computer; instead, he re-typed the security code once more._

 _His eyes filled with the information._

 _'_ _Oh dear…'_

Logic. It was a simple enough process, and an important one at that. Working with computers had given Mel enough experience with it; it was second nature by this point.

Logically, for example, she knew to suspect Maisy. She knew for a fact that she didn't commit the murders, and Maisy was the only other person in the area, not to mention her somewhat cavalier attitude to the murders.

But that wasn't enough. Despite what sheer evidence was telling her, Maisy just couldn't be a suspect. The impracticality would be evidence enough, but there was a human side as well. Against her better judgment and whatever cold hard logic would tell her, she couldn't see Maisy as anything other than an ally.

'We've got to see it,' Maisy said suddenly.

The two of them were sat back-to-back in the main room; Maisy with the revolver in front of her, Mel with the sheets of paper. This way, if the figure tried to sneak on one of them, the other could provide some warning.

'Sorry?'

'We've got to see it. The bodies, I mean.'

'What do you mean?' Mel asked.

'Before the…thing, whatever it is, can only take the bodies away after we've seen them. The Professor and Arthur had been dead for ages and the bodies were still there, but Alice only took a few minutes. We had to see it before the body could go.'

'Yes…' Mel replied, not entirely convinced. 'It fits.'

'Makes about as much sense as everything else tonight. See? Not so thick, am I?'

'No, you're not.'

'Thanks, ma'am. Didn't want to say anything, but your friends running a bit late.'

Mel laughed a little. 'He tends to.'

There was a lull, before Maisy spoke once more: 'Do me a favour?'

'Anything.'

'When it gets me-'

'Maisy,'

' _When it gets me_ , don't look at my body. Just run. Because when you see it, that's when it can get at me. Take me away. So whatever you do, don't let me go. Don't forget me.'

'I won't forget you,' Mel replied, as comfortingly as she could make her voice sound. 'And it's not going to get you. One of us will see it coming.'

'When we stop whoever this is,' Mel continued, after a deep breath. 'I was wondering…if you'd like to come with me. Me and my friend, I mean. We go travelling, all around – this was just a holiday. A break. And our…ship, that we go around in, there's always room for a small one.'

Mel bit her lip, waiting for the response. 'So…would you like to come?'

Maisy didn't reply.

'Maisy?'

Mel stood up, turning around. Behind her, Maisy slumped onto the ground. A thin red line trickled down her forehead, her eyes rolling backwards.

'No…' Mel cried, on the brink of sobbing. 'Maisy…'

On the floor of the living room, with a gun in her lap and blood on her forehead, Maisy Walker had died.


	10. Chapter 9: And Then There Were None

Chapter 9: And Then There Where None…

Maisy's head lowered to the ground as if in slow motion, the drips of blood carving an intricate pattern of scarlet into her flesh. With a sickening thud, it hit the ground, an island amongst its sea of dust, and in a final, lifeless movement, it rolled to the side. Her eyes, unblinking and still, remained open, screaming at Mel in a desperate last bid for help that would never arrive.

Horrified, Mel flinched backwards. In a manic bid for security, she twisted her head around, constantly checking to her left, right, behind her, before her, above her and below. With every twirl, her breath grew shallower and shallower, until it was no more than a ragged burst of air.

'Maisy…' she gasped breathlessly, staggering over to the stairs. As her energy dipped suddenly, she collapsed against the banister, barely on the brink of consciousness. Her stomach was caved in, the absence of food and nourishment much more noticeable.

At the top of the stairs, the figure gazed down on her.

'No!' she shouted, expelling as much resistance as possible. The figure started to creep towards her, its cape coming dangerously close to consuming her.

She pushed away from the steps, just about avoiding falling flat on her face. Rummaging around on the floor, she scooped up the pistol from the body – _Maisy's_ body.

Carefully, she pulled back the hammer, letting it click into place and raised the barrel into the air. The figure was just a few feet away, halfway down the stairs. Shutting her eyes and turning her head, Mel pulled the trigger.

The recoil knocked the gun back, coming too close to hitting her forehead. Fortunately, the bullet found its mark, hitting the figure square in the chest.

Around the impact, the fabric wafted roughly, curving concavely for a split second before puffing out again. Expired, the bullet clinked onto the floor, falling down a few steps before coming to a halt.

Mel resisted to urge to fire again; it wouldn't do any better. She was never a crackshot, but even she could hit someone that size from this distance. Whatever the creature was made of, it was clearly bulletproof.

The figure ended its descent, the cloak billowing out towards Mel. She grabbed the barrel of the gun in her hand and started to run, keeping her finger as far away from the trigger as possible.

Concentrate, she urged herself relentlessly, concentrate! Focus on the job at hand! What did she have to do? What options did she have? Quickly, she boiled it down to two options – fight and flight. Fighting wouldn't do any good; they'd been at it all night, and she wasn't even remotely close to finding a way to hurt it. That left flight.

Keeping to the realms of reality, she couldn't keep running all night. And to be honest, she was starting to run out of places to go. Arthur's room. It was the only place, bar the kitchen, from which the figure wasn't cutting her off. Not to mention the lock on the door. At the very least, it would give her a chance to think.

Darting round the corner, she ran up to the door, trying it. The lock rattled. Mel checked over her shoulder, and saw the figure enter the corridor. She was trapped.

She slammed her shoulder against the door once, twice, a third time for luck. It wouldn't budge. All the while, the figure stepped towards her, unperturbed by the strange sight before it.

It was no good, she realised in dread. She had nowhere to go. The corridor was only a dead-end from here, a broom cupboard to the other side and no more.

And then she realised. As the creature covered the last few glides, Mel stood back from the door, raising the metal cylinder in her hands. A terrible bang rumbled through the corridor, alongside a brief, fleeting flash of light. A smoulder hole lay where the lock once was.

In the last few seconds, Mel pushed the door open and fell into the room. Before she could even think, she grabbed the thick wooden panelling and forced it back into the frame.

The figure pushed back, wedging the door open as much as it could. Between the two, the struggle continued for a few seconds, levying from one side to the other in a constant fluctuation.

Mel glanced around the room, searching for something, anything that would help her. The bed was too far away, and probably too bulky anyway; the bookshelf bolted into the wall.

The wheelchair. It was still on the floor beside the bed, toppled over. Presumably, the killer hadn't gotten round to removing it yet. An inspired smile appeared on Mel's face, and she reached out a foot.

It was a stretch, but she just about managed to hook it. Retracting her leg, the wheelchair was pulled towards her, clattering across the panels in the floor.

She spun around quickly, using her legs and back to keep the door shut. With her hands now free, she scrambled for the lock on the first wheel. She found it, and clicked it on sharply. As the bolt creaked, a metal joint pressed against the rubber tyre of the wheel, stopping it from moving.

Flipping the chair over, she repeated the manoeuvre on the other side. It was ready.

Placing the two handles underneath the doorknob, she pressed on it, and with a final burst of strength, shoved it into place. The door, for all intents and purposes, was locked.

The figure didn't stop; it continued to rock the door, but to no success. Mel watched with bated breath as the door heaved and groaned.

It stopped. Silently, the creature shuffled away from the door, letting it rest.

Mel was flooded with relief, sweat plastering her hair to her forehead. She dropped onto the bed, the springs easing her down.

Soon enough, the creature faded away from the door, leaving an echoed whisper in its wake.

The door slid open, admitting the user to the room.

The Ensign was one of the newest recruits to the ship by far. Whilst the others had all spent time on the various space stations and docks, he'd been promoted straight from the academy to active service; quite a quantum leap when all things were considered.

It was a common pastime for the other officers to use him as the butt of jokes; sending up and down the ship to search for non-existent officers, pretending not to notice he was trapped in the airlock that was about to be jettisoned, leaving it to him to stand guard over the beryllium plants.

Today, he'd been placed on guard duty in the cells, something he often remarked to be a misnomer, given the lack of actual prisoners to arrive. But today was different. One time unit, he'd been entering the sixth hour of duty, taking particular interest the pattern of the panelling opposite. The next, he felt a vicious prickling in his neck, and the floor fell out from beneath him.

When he awoke, he was informed that the prisoner had made his escape and was running amok in the bowels of the ship. Whilst the Commander had glared, the swift hand of punishment seemed to pass over him.

It had been all downhill from there. First, he'd been instructed, after sufficient rest and recuperation, to join in the manhunt for the escapee. A couple of hours wasted wandering up and down corridors, flinching at every shadow later, he ruefully realised his punishment.

Then the prisoner had appeared. Along with the rest of his squadron, the Ensign marched down the endless corridors, heading towards Hydroponics.

The instant they arrive, a firefight had broken out. A blast hit him in the shoulder, leaving a battered scorch mark in the fabric of the uniform. In quick retaliation, he fired back, earning a disrupted yelp for his troubles.

A second blast hit him in the back of the head, and he fell to the deck once more.

This was starting to get ridiculous, the Commander had ranted. A whole battalion of soldiers, beaten by a small man with an unhealthy obsession with question marks? If anyone else in the fleet should find out, they'd be a laughing stock.

That still wasn't the end of it. The Ensign had been placed on guard duty on the bridge for the time being, along with the twelve other members of the group who had failed. With his beadiest eyes and sternest glare, he had watched the peculiar little man work away at the console before him.

And, as per the usual for today, it all went wrong. Suddenly, the pipe running around the top of the bridge burst, sending a rush of air around the room like a gale-force wind in a teacup. In the brief few moments of disorientation, the man had made his escape.

Now completely fed up with the lot of them, the Commander had sent any leftovers to their cabins. The Ensign had skulked along the corridors, down the lift and along yet another corridor to his bunk, shedding his uniform en route like a lizard.

Wearily, he punched the button and opened the doors. 'What are you…' he asked the stranger working at his computer. In his stupor, it took him a few moments, but he finally realised who it was. 'You!'

 _'_ _Yes, me.' the Doctor replied, turning the computer off and facing the soldier dead on. 'Shut the door, you're letting a draught in.'_

 _Entranced, the Ensign signalled for the doors to close. They did, clicking neatly at the end._

 _'_ _Answer my question wrong and you'll find things a tad…disagreeable.' the man snarled, flaring his nostils and staring at the Ensign._

 _The very look sent a wave of shivers down his spine. Wiped away was the impish dance of the man on the bridge; now, he was pure, refined rage, barely held back by the humanoid form._

 _'_ _Go on.' the Ensign shot, daring not to speak any longer than completely necessary._

 _'_ _Advanced Training,' the man said plainly. 'I want to get inside.'_

 _'_ _You can't.' came the nervous reply. The man turned his head, refusing to accept the answer. 'There's…there's safety measures. You can't open it whilst it's in progress.'_

 _'_ _Then shut the programme down.'_

 _'_ _We can't. It's automatic.'_

 _'_ _Override it.'_

 _'_ _We can't! Any tampering with the programme could be fatal.'_

 _'_ _Is anyone else inside?'_

 _'_ _I don't think so. It's usually left on to find any bugs, but we still can't turn it off.' the Ensign replied, taking a breath to clear out his lungs 'Wait…what did you mean, anybody else?'_

 _The man grinned, before practically leaping across the room in a single bound. He pressed his index finger up against the Ensign's forehead in a single, decisive movement._

 _He couldn't scream. The pain was burning, like a web of hot wire laid across his skin; every part of his body was crying out for desperate attention; his mind was being split into two. It was as if every one of his bones were broken, his tendons snapped and throat crushed in a single movement. No matter how much the pain scorched away at his nerves, he couldn't find the breath to scream._

 _'_ _Shut it down.' the man whispered into his ear. 'Scan for life inside. Do you understand?'_

 _The Ensign whimpered as much of a reply as he could. Smiling again, the man released his grip. Sensation poured back into the Ensign's body._

 _'_ _Good. Now do it.'_

Through the blinking of heavy eyelids, Mel stirred herself back awake. The roof slowly came into focus, and the events came back to her.

She'd fallen asleep. The moment she realised, she silently cursed herself. Presumably, the adrenaline had been drawn out of her system like venom from a wound.

Quietly, she sat up in the bed, the springs creaking and squealing as she did. All around her, the house was silent.

'I wonder what time it is…' she murmured, digging around in her pocket for the watch. She produced it, and clicked the button on top, releasing the catch. The face sprang open; along with it, a small collection of shards of glass, bits of cogs and strips of metal.

'Oh no!' she cried, lowering the remains onto the bed. 'It's broken!'

The clock face was frozen at quarter to five. She must have smashed it when running into the room, then.

She'd been sleeping for at least hour, though. Taking a cursory glance through the window, she was still met with a dull pane of black. As she backed away, she bit her lip. This was definitely not good.

If there was no daylight by this point, then something was seriously wrong. Which meant that the plan of simply waiting it out wasn't an option anymore. Time constraints aside, she was going to have to eat and drink sooner or later.

Tentatively, she walked towards the door and pressed her ear against the wood. For a few seconds, she held her breath, hoping not to make any noise.

There was nothing. Confident in her new safety, she judiciously pulled the wheelchair away from the doorknob, one wheel squeaked rebelliously. The restraint now removed, the door moved freely from the joint, letting a crack of air inside.

Mel grabbed the corner and pulled it open.

As she had assumed, the corridor was empty, as was the room at the end. Not a floorboard was creaking or tree being rustled by the wind.

There was a feeling creeping about her, lapping over her skin and threatening to consume her. It took her a few attempts, but she soon realised what it was.

Nothingness. The artificial sense of security brought about by spaceships, the sterile void of nothing outside the walls, no sign of life. Only the constant hum of machinery and regular flow of air.

Her instincts were based on her sense; that was rather axiomatic. But slowly, one by one, the senses were being cut off. First the sound was escaping her, only whatever noise she made herself rebounding off of the walls and through the chambers; even the incisive chill was dulling into a tepid feeling.

The candlelight was dying, as each source was slowly blown out, one by one. She felt a sudden flash of realisation – what if the candles were working on the same principle as the bodies? As Maisy had said, the bodies were only removed after being observed; what if the candles worked on a similar premise? They only burnt themselves down when being watched?

The train of thought gave her a quick pang of regret. Maisy. As soon as Mel had spun around, trying to get a glance at the challenger, she'd caught a glimpse of Maisy's body. More likely than not, that was going to be enough. If she stepped back into that room now, she'd wager that there would be no sign of Maisy whatsoever.

By this point, she was nearly out of the corridor. There was a certain gloominess to the room, not even closely resembling the picture of warmth and comfort it was when she first arrived. The shadows hung heavy in every crevice, nook and cranny; a mist of condensation was wafting in time with Mel's breath; it was all so _still_. When she had first arrived, or any other time, in fact, before tonight, there was always something moving. The fire crackling, Alice pottering about with drinks and mugs, some of the guests playing cards at the table in the corner. But now…there was nothing.

It was like she was trapped in a painting, she decided. A photograph that was fading in the sun, still and absent of life whilst the colours slowly disappeared into the same bleak brown.

She moved into the centre of the room, keeping one eye on the stairs. The darkness seemed to be creeping from outside; it had consumed the landscape around them, and now it was getting inside. Soon enough, it would have her.

Shaking her head, she banished the thoughts. Despite all that had happened this evening, she could at least _try_ and remain calm about it. A killer clad in black stalking their prey and hiding the bodies was implausible, yes, but at least it was possible.

Then again, the time refusing to change from dead of night wasn't exactly beating the odds either. Quickly, she flitted her head back and forth. As far as she was aware, there wasn't another clock in the house – at least, one of which she knew.

Perhaps it was deliberate. Perhaps, in her slumber, the figure had come into Arthur's room and broken the pocket watch, just to disorientate her further, gain a few more moments of glee as she ran around the place like a headless chicken.

The thought gave her a chill. If it was correct, then she had no hope. It could – and would – follow her anywhere; doors, walls, windows being no boundary. But now, it wasn't looking to kill her, at least not straight away.

It was toying with her.

Her stomach growled, a momentary distraction from the reverie. Food. She needed food, if she was going to see this through. Whilst her stomach had been initially turned by the events of the night, it was now crying out for sustenance.

She strode across the room, heading towards the kitchen on the right. However, the moment she reached her destination, she was stopped dead in her tracks.

The figure was there.

 _Smiling as naturally as he could, the Doctor led the young Ensign down the corridor, passing other guards and troops. They either didn't notice the spectacle or made a deliberate to ignore them._

 _'_ _Not much further.' the Ensign whispered, looking ahead the whole time. 'The computer control room's next left.'_

 _The pair heading round the corner, before reaching their target._

 _'_ _I'll just get the door,' explained the Ensign, wriggling his way free of the Doctor's grasp and towards the door controls._

 _The whole time, the Doctor didn't say a word. He simply stared ahead, making sure that the Ensign didn't so much as flinch out of place. At times, he was the striking figure of the Commander on a bad day; capable of great power and strength, but only lashing it on a whim._

 _The Ensign tapped the keypad and the door hissed open. Nervously, he pointed into the chamber, stammering an answer to the Doctor._

 _'_ _It's just through there.' he finally exhaled, lowering his hand. Dismissive, the Doctor walked into the room._

 _It's moments like these, the Ensign decided, that can make or break an officer. The snap sort of decisions that require razor-sharp intellect, bullet-fast reactions and an overwhelming sense of duty._

 _He hit the alarm button. All through the ship, every computer started to flash his location, in bold red font._

 _A smattering of the guards arrived immediately, with a constant backup arriving. 'He's in there!' the Ensign roared, brandishing at the door. The rush of pride flowed into him – there'd be a promotion in this for sure._

 _The first few guards aimed their rifles at the door, in sheer anticipation of it opening. It remained shut._

 _'_ _Get the Commander,' one of the more senior officers barked at a subordinate. 'He'll want to see this.'_

On the bridge, the Commander strutted back and forth, his arms tightly crossed behind his back. Whilst his hordes were slowly coming to their senses and regaining their decorum, he was practically impervious to such attacks. His time in the Algeron Cluster had seen to that.

'Sir,' one of the workers spun round in his chair. 'Security alarm's been activated. Deck 1…' he checked the console, before being overcome with a rush of dread 'Computer banks.'

The Commander stood up a little straighter, arching his head back to resemble a statue of a great emperor. 'Send an assault detachment down. Isolate the room. We've still got time before the rendezvous.'

The worker nodded, returning to the controls.

Quick as a shot, Mel pounced. She flew through the air, arms outstretched, the figure zooming closer and closer. A moment of flight later, she made contact, tackling it to the ground. There was a brief skirmish of fabric-on-flesh, a flashing montage of disorientation.

Mel reached out her hand, frantically feeling around for a weapon, anything to help her out. She found it.

Pulling her arm back, she grabbed onto the item and held it just away from her chest. Without thinking any further, she jabbed it forward.

She shoved herself away from the monstrosity, falling over and rolling once or twice further. As she stood up, she examined her handiwork.

The figure was lying on the floor, jolting and shuddering furiously in a rapid chain of spasms and bursts. However, it didn't move. In the centre of it was a single kitchen knife, a good foot long and pinning the creature down.

It seemed to hold. If anyone was inside, it would at least wound them enough to stop them for the night. If it was something else, then it would stand a chance.

All around her, the darkness was consuming the room, eking its way out of the corners and hidden spots that appeared to surround her.

The stairs. Given how the door was almost guaranteed to be locked, the stairs would be her only chance.

She hit them at an angle, thundering upwards, taking them two, three, four at a time. A few bounds later, she had reached the landing, slamming against the wall opposite and carrying on.

Where could she run? Where was there to go? Somehow, the ladder to the loft had been retracted, the hatch sealed behind it. The figure was shutting off the whole house, room by room. Presumably, it was all a part of the plan – destroy her mind then destroy her body.

She reached the first door and grabbed the handle. This time, it wouldn't even budge; not the constraint of a lock, but the certainty of a wall.

All around the frame, in betwixt the cracks, the door seamlessly merged into the wall. The gap had been completely filled in with wood.

Mel recoiled in horror. Moving to the other side of the corridor, she checked all the doors on that side, and down the corridor. They were all part of the wall.

'No…' she gasped, running down the corridor. At the very end was her and Maisy's rooms, just before the library. Throwing her feet forward and screeching to a halt, she tried her door.

It flew open, revealing her room inside. Already it had been returned to the normal format, with the bed neatly made and dust cleared from every surface. Her suitcase was sitting in the centre of the room, the TARDIS key on the table. She ran across the room, wrapped the key's chain around her neck and hauling her suitcase into the corridor.

Shutting her door, she then tried Maisy's. After a bit of elbow grease, it managed to fly open.

Inside the door, the room was starting to vanish, drip by drop. The corners were non-existent, simply edges of the painting that the artist couldn't be bothered to fill in. The colours of the room had started to merge into one.

She felt a great force drawing her inside, like a vacuum tugging at her. Before it grew too strong, she slammed the door, shutting off the world for the last time.

There was nothing more to be discovered here, she decided grimly. Back to the larder and keep an eye on the figure.

Forming a strategy in her mind, she headed down the corridor. A darkness blocked her path, cutting her off from the other end.

It blotted at the walls around her, dabbing away at the light. A rough circle could be seen from her point of view, blurring the edges between where the corridor ended and void began.

And at the centre of it all was the figure. The gash made by the knife had somehow healed itself; the dirt scrubbed into the fabric by the floor vanished without a trace. As it made each step closer to Mel, the darkness followed it, plunging more and more of the house into the abyss.

Mel turned on her heels and ran, tossing herself through the library door and slamming it shut behind her. One or two of the books trembled and fell off of the shelves; apart from that, her desperate wheezing was the only sound in the room.

She was trapped. As she had found out for herself earlier that day, there was only one way in and out of the library – the door. The door she had locked against the creature coming towards. The door she was just backed up against right this very second. The door that she daren't open.

Well. That wasn't completely true. There was one other way out of the room…quickly, she eyed the window, making sure it was still there.

Thankfully, it was. Memories of the discussions came racing back; it was a straight drop to the ground, mixed in with only the pavement to break your fall and the dead of night to cover you. All in all, not great odds.

That was, if it was still possible to use the window. The blackness was most probably blocking up the frame.

Wearily, she slumped down at the door, just about keeping it shut. Even the table and chairs had been removed, making the room strangely bare and empty. And presuming the bookshelves weren't bolted to the walls, she still couldn't shift one into place in time.

Why was she so afraid of this darkness? The dark, yes, but not like this. Never to this degree, to this cripplingly terrifying extent. It was primal, something meticulously knitted into her DNA long before she was born. It wasn't a fear of death or pain that spurned her on; it was fear of the unknown.

Whatever this creature was, it was completely different to anything she'd met before with the Doctor. After all these adventures, she should be somewhat used to meeting strange new lifeforms. And yet here she was, cowering in fear of a man in a cloak the moment she was on her own.

A chill juddered down her back, the whole door becoming ice-cold suddenly. Without needing to check, she knew what it was. The darkness.

 _Tutting and grumbling irritably, the Doctor got to work on the computer. All around him, computer banks were stacked high like bookshelves, every single one of the diodes flashing and ticker-tapes churning._

 _A few columns down the room, a keyboard formed part of a larger console. One of the several entry points for the system, most likely. If one of the troops wanted to access the databanks of the ship directly, it would have to be done through here._

 _That gave the Doctor a rather nice thought. This one room was the single gathering of information vital to the success of the entire ship, probably the entire mission. Quite a silly idea – almost literally putting all your eggs in one basket._

 _When a ship this size was making rendezvous with another, it was bound to share any information, even if just to check for anomalies. Not really the best laid plans of mice and men…_

 _The Doctor started to tap at the nearest keyboard, a stream of digits flowing across the stream in satisfyingly symmetric order. Just a simple Trojan Horse program, installed under the key commands. Piece of cake to someone as experienced as him._

 _There. That should do it. Unless they happened to have the space-age equivalent of Alan Turing on their payroll, there was no chance of it being cracked before the rendezvous. If nothing else, it would buy him a tad more time to think._

 _Completing his work, the Doctor got back to the matter at hand. Annoyingly, the Ensign was right – he couldn't shut down the program whilst in use. At least, it would be a severe health and safety risk._

 _There was another option, however…yes, that should work. If he closed down the programme one file at a time, reducing the amounts of codes in use, then it might be possible. It would be risky, but it was the best chance he had._

 _Whatever the program was, it was complex. Billions upon billions of lines of code, piled atop each other, constantly changing, reworking themselves. Like trying to solve a hundred Rubix Cubes at once and they were all fighting back._

 _It was slow work, but it was working nonetheless. Quietly, the Doctor got to work, trying to shut out the sound of the guards outside._

'Alright, men,' the Commander murmured, his voice instantly calming down the officers from their aggravated state. 'Nice and easy. Loose triggers never did anyone any favours.'

Six of the troops were aiming their weapons directly at the door, so that it would be impossible for anyone to pass without entering the crosshairs.

'Have you sealed off the maintenance hatches?'

'Yes, sir. And the gas was pumped inside as well. Nobody's going through there any time soon,' the Ensign replied, perhaps a little unduly smug in his success.

'Good. Seal off this deck. When he escapes, he's got getting any higher.'

'Yes, sir.'

The Commander chose not to react; instead, he turned away from the door, adopting a pensive expression. 'Our computer banks are through there,' he said at last. 'One wrong button and our ship forgets how to move. If that doesn't give you a deadline, then I don't know what will.'

She couldn't hold on much longer. Already, her eyelids were starting to grow heavy.

How long had she been at it now? She must've been awake for a good 20 hours before making it to Arthur's room; even that rest couldn't have been more than a few hours, either.

Sleep deprivation. Got to be. If she didn't find a way to rest soon enough, she'd pass out before much longer.

Whether the creature was still interested in her or not, she didn't have a chance at this rate. She'd have to try her luck outside, get away from this house. Somehow, she seemed to be running out of air in this room, the atmosphere growing stuffy and choking her.

She'd grown used to the chill of the door at her back by this point; despite this, however, whenever she shifted, no matter how slightly, the chill always came back, stronger and deeper than before.

It'd have to be the window. If it was as cold outside as it was inside, then she didn't stand any chance climbing down the side of the house. At least if she jumped, she could try to land on her feet and limit her injuries.

Mel stood up, taking a troop of deep breaths, filling herself up with energy for the exercise. She released her force on the door slowly, feeling the figure push it back in return.

This was it. She braced herself, looking directly at the window before here. Just a hurdle, she told herself – not a death-defying plummet or last-bid for survival, but a hurdle, like the ones she'd jumped over in the gymnastics class.

She ran across the room, positioning her forearms in front of her head to keep away any pesky shards of glass. With her dominant foot, she kicked off against the door, giving herself a strong start and one last push against the adversary in the progress.

Like an Olympic sprinter, she ran across the room, arms heaving to give herself as much speed as possible. One step, two steps, and jump!

She soared through the window, sending a cascade of glass all around her, a million twinkling snowflakes in the air. As she was airborne, she felt her stomach twist at the zero gravity and wind rush into her face, flapping her hair about the place. The light of the library died away, and there was darkness.

At last, things seemed to be going his way. The edges of the Commander's mouth curled at the corners, tightening the skin on his face.

'Are you ready yet?' he drawled to the subordinate, putting on a façade of boredom.

'Very nearly, sir.' the guard replied, attaching the last few of the wires to the bulkhead and trying a few buttons. The computer started to work on the task, bleeping away.

'Ah ha!' he cried happily. 'You see, sir, the fugitive locked the door on the inside. _But_ , this little gizmo allows us to circumvent the lock.'

He beamed at the Commander, eagerly awaiting the response. 'You don't care, do you?' he asked numbly in resignation.

'No.' the Commander replied sharply. 'As long as the door gets opened and the fugitive caught, I couldn't care less what you do.'

A crack appeared in the centre of the doors, a thin slit an inch or so across. All six troops instinctively raised arms, preparing to shoot.

'Steady…' the Commander chided, raising his hand as a warning. 'You two, open the door fully. The rest, get ready to fire on my mark.'

 _The Doctor finished the particular sequence he was working on, hitting the command button with a small sense of victory. No sooner had he finished his task did a sliver of light cut the room in half._

 _Like a rabbit caught in headlights, he turned around, watching the first shot fire through. He ducked behind a tower of computer consoles, crouching down to dodge the fire._

 _'_ _I wouldn't do that if I were you!' he shouted at the guards. 'Very fragile things, computers. One shot could do a world of damage!'_

 _There was a silence. 'He's right.' the Commander told his troops. 'Hold your fire. You! Technician! See what he's done!'_

 _One of the troops scarpered towards the main bank, bringing up the computer readout. The Doctor held his breath as the chain of symbols flashed onto the screen._

 _'_ _Got him, sir!' rang a voice beside him, as someone grabbed his arm and tugged him into sight._

 _'_ _Ah!' hummed the Commander, clearly pleased. 'At last. I believe we have no further use for this scum. Dispose of him.'_

 _'_ _But sir-'_

 _'_ _Now, Ensign. Or you shall be joining him.'_

 _The Ensign nodded slowly, grabbing the Doctor's arm and forcibly escorting him out of the room._

The glass shattered once more, throwing Mel onto the floor. She rolled in confusion at first, focusing as much as she could on avoiding any injuries.

She came to a halt, and rose to her feet as quickly as she could. Instead of the wet morning grass, chilled air and wafting breeze, she was met with the same stillness as before.

It was the living room. Much, much darker than as she'd left it, with the night having eroded away most of the room, but it was just about recognisable.

Suddenly, the darkness started to grow, like the pool of blood surrounding a wound. Mel stumbled into the centre of the room, in the remaining circle of colour. To her side, front and back, above and below, the darkness was filling in.

The figure appeared before her, a metre away and no more. By now, Mel was too tired to fight. There was nowhere left for her to run, nowhere to hide. Now, she had no choice.

She pulled the pistol from her pocket. It too was fading into black; as she dropped it to the floor, it disintegrated into dust, and the dust into nothingness.

Exhausted, sobbing gently, she dropped to her knees, bowing her head before the figure. The darkness completed its journey, trapping her completely.

'I give up…' she wept, looking up at the figure. 'You win.'

The figure started to shift, the cloak fanning in the still air. It morphed, going fainter and stronger in regular oscillations. A shape appeared…a human. It was far too vague to be recognised, but it was human nonetheless.

'Who…' Mel started 'who are you?'

A cry emanated from the figure, twisted and mutated into an eldritch screech. The sound sliced into Mel's ears, but she resisted the urge to cringe.

At last, the shroud started to clear, wiping away the smokescreen. The humanoid form became clearer, more emphasised. Mel squinted, trying to see who it was.

The screeching shifted through several different tones, until it forms legible words:

'Hello, Mel. Nice to see you again.'

Mel crooked her head, unable to believe it. It couldn't be…never.

Before, surrounded by a sea of darkness…

…was the Doctor.


	11. Chapter 10: Death Comes At The End

Chapter 10: Death Comes At the End

The guards ran through the room, pointing the barrels of their rifles at every corner, shouting back a brief 'clear' every now and then.

Half of them had been tasked with keeping the Doctor down, each of them claiming a limb and pinning it to the ground.

'Keep him down,' the Commander, casually inspecting the computer console for changes. 'If he sneezes, shoot him.'

The Doctor listened to the words, mournfully regretting the inability to blow his nose. Hopefully, his program will have worked. If it hadn't…

'I think we have a problem, sir…' the worker in the corner called, failing to maintain his front of serenity.

Admirably, the Commander resisted the urge to react. He took the news in stride; instead of bawling, he turned around, locking onto his target.

'Elaborate.'

'There seems to be a virus in the system. I'm trying to get it down, but-'

Any semblance of calm was wiped away in an instant. 'What?!' the Commander shouted, snatching the keyboard from the worker. 'He's bugged the system. Shut it down, all of it!'

'But sir!'

'Now!'

Reluctantly, the swarm of workers got to work turning off as many parts as possible. The lights surrounding the room flickered into darkness, with the humming churn dying away as well.

'You fool…' the Commander muttered bitterly to the failure. 'He's left a trap. Do you have any idea what will happen if this spreads to the rest of the ship?'

'Yes – yes sir.'

'Tell me.'

'It will…it will shut down the controls. Eventually, it will reach life support, and we'll…we'll…'

'Die? Yes, quite right. As anyone with half a brain could tell you, most viruses of this type wouldn't act until prompted – they are quite safe until interfered with. Of course, when some damn fool blunders in and sets the whole thing off, it's bound to go wrong, isn't it?'

'Yes, sir.'

'How long until the rendezvous?'

'One and a half time units, sir.'

'And we have no time to send out a communications array. When the rendezvous arrives, the attack will have to be postponed and most probably called out at this stage. Even for a civilisation this primitive, it'd be child-play for them to see a gathering that size.'

'Yes, sir.'

'Unless our technicians can repair the damage in the next time unit, the whole invasion will be over and it shall be entirely your fault.'

'Yes, sir.'

'Any comments?'

'…sorry, sir.'

The Commander pursed his lips. 'There are some spare parts in the aft airlock. Go and fetch them.'

The failure nodded quickly, before exiting the room. A few seconds after, the Commander pulled a second troop closer. 'Follow him,' he said plainly. 'When he goes inside the airlock, shut the doors and eject him.'

A rather brutal smile materialized onto the face opposite. 'Yes, sir.' he nodded gleefully, before stalking out into the corridor.

'About the best I could do, I'm afraid,' the Doctor tutted, patting down his holographic form. 'Pressed for time. Now, I've not got long. This place, it isn't Pease Pottage.'

'Doctor!' Mel shouted, frantically grabbing for his attention. He continued relentlessly, seemingly ignoring her pleas.

'It's a simulation.' he continued without missing a beat. He pondered himself, before shaking his head. 'You'll know what that means. No need for tiresome explanations. This whole place, it's a computer programme. Training, I think. I've shut the software down. If it's worked, then there shouldn't be anything around you.'

'I'm afraid I can't get you out any time soon. There's guards about to break in, you see. But don't worry, I'm on my way.'

The Doctor pressed an invisible button, before vanishing from sight. Mel gasped at first, looking around for his reappearance. 'Doctor!' she shouted, without even the remotest echo. 'Doctor!'

Tentatively, she rose to her feet. Blackness was all around her; despite this, however, she could see every inch of her body perfectly.

She started to run, looking for the nearest wall. After a few minutes of running flat-out, she didn't seem to be any closer.

Reaching down, she took off the left shoe, placing it slowly onto the ground. Not once taking her eyes off it, she backed away. It didn't move. No matter how long or how fast she ran backwards, it stayed exactly at her feet, where she had left it.

She grabbed the shoe from the ground and tossed it over her shoulder. Instead of flying through the air, it moved perhaps three inches, just about missing her face. Once more, it clattered to the ground, staying on the spot.

By rights, it should've moved at least a small amount. But this simply impossible. Despite her best efforts, she wasn't sure if the room was the size of a closet or a warehouse.

In the sea of black, a shape shifted into form. At first, it was elongated, translucent, like a length of flesh stretched out unnaturally. However, it soon snapped together, morphing into an elliptical bullet.

A second and a third also arrived, shooting into their appearance like the first. Completely identical in shape, they silently communicated through the void.

If one was susceptible to transverse waves, they'd be able to hear the radio-based chatter being scattered from ship to ship. Garbles about tactics, young officer raring to get killing, a veritable cacophony suspended in space.

Out of the four ships now present in orbit, three of them were ready for battle. The fourth was still crippled from its recent encounter with a saboteur.

In the three functioning ships, every torpedo tube was readied, soldiers cramming into high-explosives like ram-rodding a cannon. Laser banks were charged up, aiming at the capital cities of the world. They opted, however, not to raise the shields. A waste of power, given the capability of the enemy in this situation.

Their tacticians had predicted that if they didn't commence the attack within ten time units, then the species below would become aware of their presence. Granted, there was little they could do about it, but it still wasn't worth the risk.

 _Inside the computer room, half of the guards had resigned to their fate, simply pressing random chains of buttons in the faint hope of success. Meanwhile, the other was still scrambling at every available surface, living off of the vain hope that their haphazard technique would be the cure to the dilemma._

 _The Commander the scene, inwardly rather amused by the spectacle. In typical circumstances, his head would be just as much at stake as the rest of his crew. But this wasn't typical. Even at the worst of times, he was capable of worming his way out of a death sentence. When a situation as bizarre as this reared its head, it wouldn't be any trouble at all._

 _On the floor, the Doctor hadn't moved; he stared at the ceiling, presumably counting the pattern in the metal tiles. Unless he fancied being shot into a cinder, he wouldn't be moving any time soon._

 _'_ _Sir?' one of the guards said, looking into the cat's cradle of wires. 'I think we've got a problem.'_

 _'_ _What is it?'_

 _'_ _A relay device. It would seem that the fugitive connected it to the circuitry just before we broke in.'_

 _'_ _And?'_

 _'_ _It's connected to the transmitters. I think it's sending out a signal, to the other ships.'_

 _'_ _Decode it.'_

 _'_ _Sir, I can't!'_

 _'_ _Decode it now.'_

 _'_ _I'm sorry, but it can't be done!'_

 _'_ _Ensign…'_

 _The worker nodded slowly, before turning into the wiring. In the corner of the room, the speaker crackled and fizzled into life._

 _'_ _Greetings,' spoke a familiar voice through the systems. 'This is Captain John Smith, of the good ship Bounty.'_

 _Groaning, the Commander glared at the Doctor, who smiled and waved in return._

 _'_ _This ship has been seized by the Interplanetary Resistance Platoon. You have 2 time units to leave this system, or face the consequences.'_

 _The Commander grabbed the edges of the Doctor's shirt, hauling him up and suspending him in the air. 'You!'_

 _'_ _Just wanted to pass on a message.' the Doctor grinned in retaliation. 'Hope you don't mind.'_

 _'_ _Shut that broadcast down!' the Commander roared at the nearest lackey. 'Now!'_

 _The whole lot of them got to work, tearing apart the devices. But it was too late. By the time the message shut down, the transmitter had frizzled away, the message had been received and the targets realigned. Suddenly, three arrays of torpedoes, lasers and pop-guns were aimed directly at the Commander and his ship._

 _'_ _I've coded in an attack pattern,' the Doctor told his enemy coolly. 'Fully automatic.'_

 _'_ _That won't last long,' snarled the Commander in return. 'We have to get to the bridge!'_

 _'_ _Are you sure about that?' the Doctor asked, as the group stampeded to the door. 'Only, I seem to remember something about a lockdown…'_

 _The blood drained from the Commander's face, turning a nasty shade of white. 'The other guards…'_

 _'_ _You've just destroyed the communications system,' the Doctor told him, wriggling free and brushing himself off. 'Slight hitch in the plan, there.'_

 _The Commander shoved him to the floor, grunting in anger. 'The service hatches!'_

 _'_ _Gassed, sir.' one of the troops replied. Upon being met with the Commander's daggers, he quietly turned and stared at the floor._

 _'_ _The attack should be starting soon enough,' the Doctor announced, picking himself off of the floor. 'Just enough time to reach the escape pods and get away.'_

 _'_ _Impossible. The pods can't be reached on this deck.'_

 _The Doctor simply chuckled in response. 'Oh dear…must be off.'_

 _He sauntered out of the room, doffing an imaginary hat to the guards. They stared in bemusement as he grabbed onto a wire and tugged it out of the socket in a single pull._

 _Quickly, the Doctor dove out through the door, hearing it click shut behind him. He rolled across the floor, absorbing the blow and directing himself down the corridor. As he made it to his feet, he didn't break speed once._

There was a flash of darkness. All around her, it rippled, dipping darker and ever-so-slightly lighter, forming impossible patterns before her eyes.

Mel squinted, determined to shut out the nonsense. A prick of brilliant white, barely legible, appeared, growing into a gigantic circle. The shape expanded, spreading around to form a ring surrounding Mel. Finally, it filled in the higher gaps, until the white had totally replaced the black.

The light was blinding her, searing her synapses. No matter how tightly she clamped her eyelids shut, the light still somehow found a way in, digging into her irises like a drill.

And then it stopped. For what seemed like days, she was too scared to move, hoping that the attack had perhaps forgotten about her.

'Hello, Mel.'

Terrified, she peered up, pulling her hands away from her eyes. The room had balanced itself out to a smooth middle ground; not the blinding light nor the ravenous dark.

The walls were a bland grey, curving up and down to mark the rounded nature of the cavern. Small antennae, surrounded themselves by a matching dish, were implanted into the sides at regular intervals, humming quietly to themselves as they died down, the light at the end fading away.

Mel was stood in the pit of the chamber, the walls curving like a huge bowl. In the centre of the wall opposite was a metallic rectangle, around six foot by three. With a groaning hiss, a set of steps appeared in one section of the wall, connecting her to the rectangle.

In turn, the rectangle retracted into the wall above it. A harsh screech of light took its place, giving Mel the slightest glimpse at the corridor beyond.

A figure stepped into view. After only a moment of thought, Mel recognise the outline; granted, there was a few integral components missing, but it was him nonetheless.

The Doctor gazed upon Mel, content to see her still in one piece.

'Doctor!'

Mel, still half-convinced that it was no more than a mirage, stumbled towards the shape, making her way up the steps. 'It's you!'

'Yes,' the Doctor laughed, oblivious to the ordeal. 'Sorry I took a while. Got a little…waylaid. I did send a message, though. Not sure if it got through.'

'The…hooded person? That was you?'

The Doctor considered his answer for a moment, before nodding decisively. 'Yes, it will have been. That's the problem with spatio-temporal mechanics; you never know what you're going to get.'

'What about all the people?'

'People?'

'Yes, in the house! Arthur, Maisy, Alice, the Professor!'

'Characters of a book, Mel,' the Doctor replied, putting his hands on her shoulders for comfort. 'As real as stories.'

'But I talked to them…'

'Advanced Training.' the Doctor murmured, tracing his finger around the lettering on the door. 'Replicate the environment on the planet, the troops know what to expect.'

'And you…shut the programme down?'

'Safest way to extract. As long as the programme was activate, we couldn't risk getting you out. And shutting it down too quickly would be almost certain death.'

'So all the…characters disappearing?'

'Simplifying the programme, bit by bit. The programme was slowly shutting down, removing the extraneous elements – sights, sounds-'

'People.'

'Yes, characters.' The Doctor emphasised, pointing to her. Suddenly, he looked over his shoulder, a thud booming down the corridor. 'Come on,' he urged, shutting the door. 'We've got to go.'

With the twenty-eighth hit to the bulkhead, it unclamped and slid open, freeing the group inside.

'Spread out!' the Commander barked, checking his own weapon discretely. 'First to find him gets to live!'

The troops split up, running like a stampeding horde of wildebeest. This deck was one of the smaller ones aboard, owing to the curving exterior of the ship; however, there was still a bounty of rooms and holes for the fugitive to hide in.

'Clear!' shouted one of the guards, inspecting the nearest cabin. 'Clear!' called another, waggling his rifle at the armoury. 'Clear!' came a third voice, proving the mess hall was safe.

With each cry, the guards won back the deck, room by room by room. The Commander took it all in stride, his face fixed into a pitiless grimace. Knowing the track record of his enemy, at least some of this squadron wouldn't make it back from the expedition. Before the pang of regret could hit him, he remembered the day he'd just had. Quite frankly, they deserved it.

'What's on this deck?' he asked a troop, not willing to give him the respect of attention.

'Training,' the guard replied, lowering his gun. 'Cabins, mess, armoury, low level storage.'

'No, that's not it…' the Commander bit his lip, shaking his head. 'There's got to be something I've missed.'

A memory hit him like a brick wall, almost bringing him down to his knees. 'No…' he muttered 'He couldn't.'

Shoving the guard aside, he walked down the corridor, entranced by the idea.

There was another room on this deck. One he himself had made use of that very day – that very hour, in fact. If this man knew what he was doing, then it might just work. Quickly, he summoned the requisition forms from that morning to the front of his mind; 47 rifles, a quota of food portions, 12 uniforms…yes. Yes, they'd be there.'

'With me.' he ordered the guards to his side, beckoning down the corridor. 'Follow behind, shut off the corridor. The rest, keep searching.'

The group nodded in reply, before returning to their work. With a grim sneer on his face, the Commander approached the end of the corridor.

'Trust me, Mel,' the Doctor told her, tapping the square of buttons and opening the hatch in the wall. Inside was a gathering of equipment – boots, masks, gloves. The collection was eclectic to say the least to Mel.

They were stood in a small room, not much larger than a broom cupboard. One glass door connected them to the corridor, opening ajar; a much thicker, heavy-set door was opposite it, tightly sealed shut. Next to a hole that had appeared in the wall was a mess of wires, dangling from their place. However, the Doctor ignored the wires, after switching two around and muttering a 'much better' to himself quietly.

'What are we doing?' she asked, still reeling from the after-effects of the shock.

'A walk.'

The Doctor, with barely a second to breathe, lifted up his index finger and spun it around, indicating for Mel to do the same. She complied. Quickly, he lowered a mask onto her face, strapping it on behind her. After struggling for a second, she surrendered, letting him finish the job. The glass pane of the mask was pressed straight against her eyes, barely an inch between; the breathing tube was connected to her mouth, prying out each breath and forcing the next in.

The gloves were strapped on, alongside the overly-large boots. When she looked up, she saw that the Doctor had done the same to himself, complete with mask securely fastened to his head.

He reached out, tapping the red button next to the glass door. As it hissed shut, the heavier door started to slide open. The air around them rushed out, ruffling Mel's hair and flapping the dress around her knees.

Over his shoulder, the Doctor glanced through the door. The Commander had appeared, raving at the pair through the door, spittle shooting out of his mouth and fist slamming against the glass panes. Grinning, the Doctor waved goodbye, stepping through the hatch.

'Get him!' the Commander cackled, hitting the glass as hard as he could. Even if he could summon up the 5 megaton strength required to fracture it, it would do no more than kill everyone in the vicinity. However, given his options, that seemed to be the preferable choice.

'We can't, sir.' the nearest guard sighed in defeat. 'They've taken the only airmasks on this deck and the lockdown's still active. There's no way we can get at them.'

'Then find a way! Or you can the walk outside yourself!'

In a fit of pique, the Commander stormed off, leaving the bemuse guards in his trail.

One foot before the next. That's it, nice and gentle. Left, right, left, right. It was like being drunk; everyday tasks so mundane and ordinary as walking becoming the complex and surreal tasks they were.

She focused on the hull beneath her, opting to ignore the fantastic display above her. The Doctor had been guiding her across the surface, holding her hand and leading her to their destination.

Somehow, the apparatus attached to her by the Doctor stopped her from choking the moment they left the airlock. She didn't have the slightest idea how, but was grateful nonetheless.

Daringly, she glanced upwards. Before her, the beams of light were flung from one ship to the other, great lengths of red, blue and green launching themselves into the bright ivory hulls.

The ship nearest to theirs was barely holding together by the looks of things; chunks of it were missing, or floating around in the space surrounding it. Sheets of the hull had been eroded away to reveal the workings inside, decks and walls crossed together like gauze.

A flash of orange blared from the side of the ship, launching forward a cylinder of grey. A torpedo. It was followed shortly by a second, third and fourth. The whole lot of them made contact with the weakened ship, hitting at four different points across the shape.

A quartet of flames bore into the hull upon impact, splitting the ship into countless segments. Suddenly, a larger explosion appeared at the centre, blasting the ship apart and blowing it away like a balloon being burst.

Mel automatically ducked, despite the futility of the action. The nearest portions missed them by what seemed to be miles, shooting away from the battle and into the depths of space soundlessly, before slowing to a halt.

She watched in awe, following the spectacle like a child with a firework.

The Commander jolted to one side along with the rest of the ship, bracing himself against the wall for safety. That blast was the strongest by far. Thankfully, however, the ship was holding together.

His troops had just about managed to remove the lockdown on the liftshaft – however, the damage brought about by the attack had shut down the actual lifts.

'Do we assume Option One or Two when we reach the bridge? the Ensign, having recovered from the Doctor's attack.

The Commander pursed his lips. Option One was safety-based; total lockdown of all areas. Damage would be limited, but once you were stuck in a sector due to be hit, there was no escape. Option Two, on the other hand, meant that the lockdown would be completely averted, with every possible door opened. It would allow each individual person time to reach an escape pod, but the slightest damage could have the most widespread effects.

'Option Two,' he announced, with little hesitation.

The pair reached the next liftshaft. Groaning, the Ensign forced his hands into the gap and pried the two doors apart. 'Come on…' the Commander urged, tapping his foot impatiently. Another blast rocked the ship, almost knocking the Ensign into the shaft.

Locking into place, the doors were fixed apart, with around a foot between them. The Commander scowled, before shoving the Ensign away and forcing himself through the gap.

The cool breeze of the shaft hit him, sending a wave of goosebumps over his flesh. Nevertheless, he bared it, grabbing onto the ladder and starting to climb.

A trail of equipment was scattered throughout the corridor, like the breadcrumbs in a forest. Gloves, boots and masks led from the airlock, circling through the maze of corridors and towards a particular panel in the wall.

Mel looked around, still not sure that they wouldn't be ambushed at the last second. Directly in front of her stood the Doctor, with a bundle of wires in his mouth.

'Don't worry, Mel,' he spoke through the mouthful 'we're safe. The guards will all be distracted by the battle.'

'I hope you're right…'

'I am!' he replied indignantly. 'Trust me!'

He touched the ends of two exposed wires, creating a small spark of electricity which leapt between the two. The burst of power was clearly enough to open the hatch, as it slid away.

Overwhelmed by curiosity, Mel glanced through the hole. It was a long, darkened tube, not dissimilar to a slide in a play area. As far as she could tell, it was a straight line, heading downwards and to the side at a sharp angle.

'Right,' the Doctor decided, clapping his hands together. 'In you get.'

Mel stared, still caught in a stupor. 'Sorry?'

'In you go!' insisted the Doctor, beckoning towards the tunnel. 'Don't worry, it's perfectly safe. I'll be with you in a moment. I just have to sort something out.'

Sighing, Mel reluctantly acquiesced, holding onto the bar above the hatch. Pulling herself up and swinging her legs inside, she found a foothold and started to climb.

The Doctor watched her climb down the first few steps, before moving into the darkness. He gave one last wave of encouragement, then closed the hatch to.

Rubbing his hands together, he peered around the corridor. Thankfully, nobody was about, meaning that there was nobody to stumble across the disturbed access point. It should be safe like that, then.

Yes… _should_ …

With one last furious burst of strength, the Commander charged down the corridor, the numerous bulkheads running past quicker and quicker. Behind him, the Ensign fell behind, running out of puff much quicker than his superior.

The bridge was in sight. He hadn't been able to believe it at first – surely they must be on the wrong deck, or wrong sector? But no…they'd made it.

Apart from the two of them, the corridors were deserted. Silent and still.

'Report!' the Commander howled, barging into the bridge. There was only one other officer in the room, presumably standing guard in case the man should return.

'Er…' the officer replied suddenly, clearly caught off-guard by the order. 'The…the fugitive's attack program is happening as planned. The _Neuron_ has been destroyed, the _Axon_ damaged and the _Dendrite_ has little to no damage.'

'I don't care about them, Ensign!' the Commander barked. 'I care about me! How is _this_ ship?!'

'Er…holding together, from what it looks like. This fugitive is quite the strategist.'

'I'll have to hire him when all this is over.' the Commander muttered dourly. 'Are all the escape pods still in place?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Good. Prepare to jettison them.' he ordered, heading towards the door.

'Sir?'

'We have 120 escape pods positioned over this ship. Should either the _Axon_ or _Dendrite_ choose to pick them off, they will have to do so one by one. Jettisoning all of the escape pods with create a larger amount of decoys. I should make planetfall safely enough.'

'I'm not sure I understand, sir.'

'No, I didn't think so.' the Commander sniffed back. 'If any of the crew asks, I am present on the bridge and urging them to keep fighting. That's an order, do you understand?'

'Well, yes sir, but-'

'Good. Get to it.' ordered the Commander, as he headed towards the exit.

As he marched brusquely down the corridor, he passed the weary face of the Ensign and, with a derisive smirk, hummed a funeral dirge in his mind.

It was quite fortunate that she could still feel, Mel thought to herself. The darkness had taken away her sight; the silence her hearing and solitude her words.

But she could still feel. She could feel the ladder beneath her fingers, and the cold air nipping at her skin.

As far as she could tell, she had been climbing for 90 seconds, give or take a few. However, that didn't actually mean a thing. She could be one step from the end or barely even started. There was no way of telling in the darkness.

She paused for a moment, catching her breath. No matter how far up she craned her neck, the beam of light left in the hatch was simply out of sight. The Doctor had closed it just after she entered the tunnel, but she had still been able to see it.

Now, there was just nothing.

She was tempted to drop something down the shaft before her, to see how far a drop it was, how long she had left to go. But there was nothing to drop. Her remaining shoe was tightly strapped onto her foot, she wasn't wearing any loose jewellery and the pocket watch was out of reach.

Sighing, she brought her relief to an end and continued her descent.

Suddenly, she lowered one foot and found nothing. The force pulled away her other foot, dangling her over the gap. Grunting, she gripped onto the rung desperately, swinging her legs about, searching for a hold.

It was no good. She couldn't hold on for much longer – her fingers were already slipping off – but there wasn't a hold.

'Doctor!' she shouted, her voice echoing in the metal tube. 'Doctor!'

Her first few fingers fell away, followed by some more and more. The last slipped and she fell into the black.

There wasn't much left of the _Neuron_. Whilst the main blast had mostly destroyed, it had only succeeded in tearing apart the different components – engines, weaponry, bridge. The actual parts themselves were still structurally sound.

A common tactic in battle was to cripple a vessel and board it during battle. Saboteurs would damage the engines, leaving the ship with absolutely no chance of reviving itself.

Because of this, the _Axon_ and _Dendrite_ had the advantage by far. Within a matter of minutes, the ship would be destroyed, little more than a collection of rubble and ash, floating in the void of space.

The Commander felt thoughts like that swimming around inside his head, pushing him further and further towards the deadline. He lowered himself to the escape pod and sealed the door rapidly. Through the transparent section at the base of the pod, he saw the planet below; brilliant swirls of white, blue and green forming a perfect orb beneath him. Primitive, but it will do. He could set up a communications radio, support beacon – yes, this should do quite nicely.

He punched in the activation code for the pod, strapping himself in. 'Ready, bridge.' he called to the microphone, smiling once more. 'Let's go for it.'

'Yes, sir.' the tentative voice replied, crackled by the speaker.

A short chain of pips filled the air – warning signals to shut all doors, strap in, no arms or legs out of the vehicle. A whoosh sounded and the pod was released.

It flew through space alongside all the others, heading towards the planet below. For a scant few seconds, the _Dendrite_ and _Axon_ seemed to ignore them, letting them pass without a second thought. However, the beams started to flow, a momentary flash hitting each pod and causing them to explode in a shower of sparks.

The Commander watched the events unfold on the scanner before him. Whilst he seemed to safe for the time being, the blasts were getting closer and closer all the while. 2 time units to the atmosphere…

More of the pods were destroyed by the lasers, trimming down the numbers dramatically. There couldn't be more than ten left…

He sucked in his breath, watching the red dots fade away from the scanner. There was just one now. The lasers seemed to stop, drawing out as much tension as possible.

They returned to the ship. The Commander almost cheered in joy – in fact, he did, several times – before turning his attention back to the viewscreen.

According to the pod, he would just about make it to the surface before the ships were destroyed. If he was quick about it, he just might manage to claim that the crew mutinied, kicking him off the ship and taking it as their own. A tad out of character, perhaps, but still more plausible than the actual events.

Yes, that was it. He'd make it to the planet, scare off a few locals and set up camp. When the battle was over, set off a distress call and get picked. Back to the homeworld a hero.

He smiled, relishing the thought. He could see the reward ceremony now…

Mel groaned, feeling around the lump on her head. A bright haze filled her eyes, blinding her for now. Well, that had to be a positive – it made a difference from the dark.

It was a large chamber, at least five stories high. Various tubes and circles were broken into the round walls, leading off to other parts of the ship. A rumbling sound from one of the holes sounded, joined shortly by a conclave of scrap metal parts. They fell through the air and clattered onto the ground, barely missing Mel.

A tube ended maybe seven feet above where she was lying right now – ah. That explains it. So it hadn't been a fearsome drop at all; mere feet from the ground. She felt a tinge of embarrassment in her cheeks.

Small piles had accumulated over time, towering up with food scraps, salvage and other paraphernalia. And in the centre of it all...the TARDIS.

The Doctor strode onto the bridge, vaulting over the guardrail and crouching into the corner. Upon seeing him, the Ensign spun around, beads of sweat dripping from his face.

'What are you doing here?!'

'Just popping in.' the Doctor replied, waving his hand dismissively. Quickly, he tugged on the pullover and jacket, before popping the hat onto his head.

The Ensign didn't even think. By now, he didn't have to. It was an instinct, a snap decision that would put the wrongs to right. He raised his weapon.

'I'll kill you.'

'No, you won't.' decided the Doctor, as he stuffed his pockets of the items.

'I mean it!'

'No, you don't.'

The Ensign primed the weapon, placing the barrel against the Doctor's face. One squeeze of the trigger and splat! It'd be over.

'You don't want to shoot me.' the Doctor murmured, turning to face the man. 'That would be a bad idea, wouldn't it?'

'…No.'

'Yes, of course it would. It would hurt me. Isn't nice to hurt people, is it?'

'…No, it isn't.'

The Doctor stared at the Ensign, focussing his eyes. 'So why are you doing it?'

'Because I have to.'

'No, you don't.'

'No…' the Ensign stammered 'I don't.'

'So you don't have to kill me then, do you?'

'No.'

'Then don't do it.' the Doctor ordered, tucking his hands into his pockets. The Ensign considered the chain of logic, before lowering the weapon. 'Good,' smiled the Doctor as he picked up the umbrella and left the bridge.

Even to a complete philistine of military tactics, it was clear that the battle was drawing a close. Despite the superior stratagem of the Doctor, the ship was simply outgunned. Already, great chunks of it were being blown away from the main body, sent spiralling off into the abyss of space.

Inside the sprawling veins of the ship, people were desperately running up and down corridors, hoping to find the inconsequential task that would somehow win them the battle.

One such individual was a man called the Doctor, who kept one hand on his hat at all times lest it fall off. His feet pounded against the deck, furiously propelling him forward along the corridor.

Mel felt around her neck, hooking her fingers on the chain and pulling it free. Before her, the TARDIS key glinted in the air. Making her way over the pile of refuse, she reached the TARDIS, inserting the key into the lock. Running her hands along the smooth wooden surface, she couldn't help but smile.

'Mel!' she heard a voice cry, booming down the vent. Confused, she looked up at the source. It grew louder, and more human too, until she could make it out, clear as day.

'Mel!' the Doctor shouted as he shot through the tube, landing in the same spot Mel did. 'The TARDIS! Quick!'

'Doctor? What is it?' she asked back, helping him to his feet.

'No time, into the TARDIS, now!'

He turned the key, opening the door and with a shove of the arm, pushed her inside. Not a moment to lose, he followed after, shutting the door.

There was the most tremendous bang. It rippled through space, causing each loose part to quiver on the spot and shake in fear of itself. They drifted apart for a moment, before an explosion appeared.

It consumed the ship, charring what was left of the hull and turning it to ash. Countless people cried out, hoping to reach the escape pods and draw out a few more minutes of life. They were snuffed out like a row of candles.

Every inch of the ship was destroyed. From the food rations to the stitching in the uniform, it was lost. Jericho Manor was no more.

'Not a pleasant fate,' the Doctor mused, idly pressing the buttons of the TARDIS console. 'Very different to humans, once you get under the skin. Presuming the Commander makes it to the surface, he'll be tracked down by the authorities and analysed. If he's lucky, that is.'

'Now, then,' he started, turning the dimensional matrix off and on again. It click into place happily. 'Where to? The real Pease Pottage? Still, not too bad. Quite a nice place, Pease Pottage…always so serene…'

He waited for a response, before filling the empty space. 'I've taken care of the ships. A quick command into the communications circuits. The ships will destroy each other, then pick up the cargo and head back home. The attack will be called off for the next…oh, I don't know. Hundred years or so? About that, yes.'

By now, he was getting a little irate. One-sided conversations had a nasty habit of getting tiresome quickly, even moreso when the company was of a particularly garrulous nature.

He looked over to Mel, expecting a reply. To his surprise, she wasn't there.

Slowly, Mel opened the door, fumbling around for the lightswitch. It clicked on, filling the room with light.

Somehow, it was all different. The bric-a-brac assorted around the room was…soulless. Emotionless. Unreal. Like they were memories of someone else's life, stories that she had only heard, not experienced.

Numbly, she sat down on the bed, slipping off the remaining shoe. Her gaze fell upon the postcard, resting just to her side on the table. The sunny scene, the bright picture, the people smiling and living…it was a caricature. A silhouette of the Pease Pottage she now remembered.

The square…it wasn't supposed to be like that. The golden sunlight was standing in place of the sombre dark; the modest shadows cast by the buildings were only fractions of their true selves; the vivid colours exaggerated from the honest grey and black.

Sharply, she grabbed the postcard in her hand and crumpled it into a ball. She tossed it across the room, letting it miss the bin by miles.

If she had the energy, she'd throw as much of the room as possible into the bin. All of it, it seemed to be mocking her, taunting her for her failure.

But she simply wasn't able to. After the almost constant ordeal of the last 24 hours, she wanted to do nothing more than rest and sleep.

She lay back on the bed, stretching out as much as she could. Before she could think any further about it, she was asleep.


	12. Epilogue

Epilogue

The twinkling lights of the cabin shone before her, stirring Mel awake. Groaning quietly, she pulled herself out of the bunk.

It was coming up to her fourth month on the _Nosferatu_ and she was still getting used to all the little quirks and features of such a life.

At the moment, Glitz had docked with another ship, getting ready to exchange some goods for…well, she didn't really like to ask. Whilst she did try her hardest to keep her companion out of trouble, it seemed to be attracted to him like a moth and a flame – when it wasn't the other way around, of course.

One of the first things she had done upon boarding the ship was check the databanks. As far as she could make out – Glitz told her he'd got it cheap from an Amorpharian Trades Broker – they were real people. There had really been a Maisy Walker, an Arthur Reynolds, an Albert Oakley and an Alice Humpries. There really had been a Jericho Manor near Pease Pottage.

But it wasn't quite the same. For example, Albert Oakley was an extroverted sort, constantly sharing his new ideas with anyone he clapped eyes on. Whilst many of them were complete failures, he made sure people knew they were his.

Maisy Walker hadn't been a Suffragette; rather, she worked in the family business as a farmgirl up until the start of the war.

Alice Humpries had in fact been Arthur's goddaughter, as well as the manager of Jericho Manor after the war.

Arthur had served in the war, but was discharged due to shrapnel in his arm. Upon returning home, he had been run over and crippled ever since.

They had been real people, people with lives, stories, births and deaths to be remembered. And now she would.

One way or another, she had her answer.

At 25, a young woman had become the ruler of a country. At 25, her uncle Terry had started his own business. At 25, her grandmother was serving in a munitions factor for the war.

And at 25, Mel had travelled to the farthest stars; touched times that have come and gone in the blink of an eye; met strange new life that could only exist the deranged imaginations of a lunatic; reached new frontiers that wouldn't be dreamt of for generations to come.

She walked across the cabin to the window. Far across the stars, she could make out a cosmos. A photograph she'd seen every day upon entering her classroom. The first thing the Doctor had shown her upon her first trip in the TARDIS. The entity from which they had just departed and to which they were now headed.

Mutter's Spiral. Home.


End file.
